<- 


POEMS  OF  THE  PLAINS. 


BY 

WILLIAM  DARWIN  CRABB. 


CAMBRIDGE: 
PRINTED  AT  THE  RIVERSIDE  PRESS. 

1873- 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1873,  by 

WILLIAM  DARWIN  CRABB, 
in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


The  author  wishes  to  acknowledge  the  liberality  of 
A.  B.  Flower,  of  New  York  City,  Uri  Beach,  of 
Franklin  County,  Ohio,  and  others,  who  aided  in  the 
publication  of  this  volume,  by  their  liberal  subscrip 
tions. 


1711043 


HER  whose  tender  hand  has  touched  to  raise 

So  many  dying  hopes,  and  not  for  praise  ; 
Whose  heart  beats  friendship    for  the  throbbing 

world, 

Yet  loves  but  one  always  —  whose  heart  is  pearled 
With  unpaid  deeds  of  kindness  ;  and  whose  eyes 
Are  half-way  envied  by  the  purest  skies  — 
Whose  eyes  have  shone  out  on  the  cloudy  ocean, 
On  which,  a-tossing  with  a  wayward  motion, 
My  trembling  bark  of  heart  goes  on  its  sailing  — 
Have  shone  out,  on  the  routless  sea,  unfailing, 
As  magnet  light-house  lights  that  God  has  given 
To  win,  and  light  me,  to  the  port  of  Heaven  ; 
Whose    life   is    pure,   and    sweet,   and    good,  and 

great  — 
To  her  these  humble  songs 

I  DEDICATE. 


CONTENTS. 


WHY  SIXG 9 

THUS  AND  So 10 

WILD  BILL 13 

IOLA 24 

AH  !  WELL  ! 29 

WOLSBIN 38 

"  THE  LONG-HAIRED  BARBARIAN  "          ....  49 

FROM  TEXAS  TO  CHILI 66 

GROWING  OLD 81 

EDGAR  A.  POE 86 

THREE  WRECKS 88 

A  BOOK 92 

INDIAN  SUMMER  ON  THE  PLAINS 94 

SAILOR'S  FAREWELL 97 

LIFE  IN  DEATH 103 

THE  GARDEN  WAY 105 

MOTHER,  PRAY 109 

ESTHER *               .        .  m 

ELLEN 112 

A  MEMORY 114 

"THE  CHILD  OF  WOE" 115 

So  LOOK  ABOVE 119 


POEMS  OF  THE   PLAINS. 

WHY  SING? 

"V/'OU  smile  and  ask  me  why  I  sing  ? 

'Tis  easier  to  sing  than  tell  — 
I  only  know  there  is  a  string 
So  superfine,  its  music  brings 
A  plaintive  voice,  on  gifted  wings, 
That  tries  to  sweeten  wormwood  tears 
By  memories  of  purer  years  — 
Impure  so  long,  O  Love  !  — Ah  !  well, 
At  least,  I  still  may  wish  and  sing! 

I  only  know  a  tender  strain, 
Sent  sweetly  through  my  wayless  night, 
Entrances  me;  and  then  I  write 
And  sing  a  yearning  song  again. 

I  only  know  a  golden  lyre 
Gleams  yellowly,  whose  every  wire 
Pours  poetry  along  the  glisten  — 
That  I  stand  riveted  and  listen  ; 
And  then  (they  say)  my  hands  I  wring, 
And  pour  such  pleading  tears,  and  sing ! 


THUS  AND   SO. 

lines  would  tell  the  most  of  tales 
Which  tellers  lengthen  to  a  volume, 
Because  we  hesitate  to  name 
The  word  that  holds  the  woe  or  shame, 
Or  thought  of  death,  or  chilling  wails, — 
The  word  that  is  the  pith  of  all, 
The  longest  tale  or  bitterest  story,  — 
The  word  that,  like  a  tilting  column, 
Stands  puncturing  the  purple  sky 
Of  one's  sad  life,  —  stands  drear  and  tall 
Alone,  none  other  standing  by,  — 
Colossal  shaft  of  love  and  glory. 

No  wonder  stories  are  not  straight, — 
No  wonder  poets  deviate, 
And  hesitate,  and  stop  and  prate 
Of  things  outside  what  they  relate, 
And  seem  to  dread  to  stop  and  state 
The  thought  they  circumnavigate. 
They  wheel  around  and  emulate, 
And  over-tint,  and  over-rate 


Thus  and  So.  1 1 

These  outside  beauties,  as  they  wait ; 

Then  finally  submit  to  fate, 

And  write  the  line  that  makes  thein£r*£// 

Men  talk  about  "coherencies;" 
Some  write  upon  another  score,   ^ 
A  better  score  ;  for  do  not  bees 
That  wander,  gather  more  of  honey 
Than  those  coherent  ones  that  hover 
Buzzing  upon  one  flower  forever  *? 
And  which  is  worth  the  most  of  money  *? 

Some  call  my  songs  "  so  unrefined !  " 
Then  say  they  "  said  it  to  be  kind !  " 
The  first  is  true  as  mother's  kiss ; 
The  second,  like  the  coating  ore 
Spread  o'er  the  poorest  kind  of  tin,  — 
It  shows  the  rust;  it  is  "too  thin,"  — 
I  know  the  world  too  well  for  this ! 
Still  I  forgive  and  bear  the  pain ; 
For,  of  all  that's  good  and  wise 
And  beautiful  beneath  the  skies, 
The  only  trace  of  Paradise 
Still  left,  is  clustered  in  the  bliss 
Of  freely  giving  and  forgiving  — 
What  else  is  worth  the  pain  of  living  ? 


12  Tims  and  So. 

But  then  straight  lines  are  not  the  kind 
That  follow  out  the  natural  train 
Of  people's  thoughts;  for  men  think  more 
Than  forty  score  of  outside  things, 
While  they  digest  one  song  or  story : 
And  so  the  world  should  not  complain, 
If  I  could  gain  the  more  of  glory 
By  reaching  out  to  touch  these  strings, 
These  outside  strings,  to  wailing  rings 
Or  sad  or  sweet  toned  whisperings  — - 
These  incoherent  strings  and  springs  — 
And  send  up  sorfgs  with  gifted  wings 
To  sound  in  melody  sublime 
With  what  the  main  string  plays  to  time. 
No  song  is  sweet,  or  is  a-glee 
Or  sad,  or  wells  up  grand  and  great 
That  is  not  shackleless  and  free. 
And  so  I  enter  my  complaint 
Against  restraint.     I  will  not  taint 
My  song-child's  cheeks  with  poison  paints 
It  shall  be  what  the  heart  brings  forth  : 
It  shall  be  worth  —  what  it  is  worth  ! 


w 


"WILD  BILL." 

ILD  BILL  "  and  I !  and  miles  of  Plains! 

And  one  small  solitary  shade, 
A  plum  tree  leaved  in  scarlet  red  ! 
Some  buffalo,  so  far  it  strains 
The  eyes  to  look  !  and  spotted  eggs 
Of  prairie  hens  strewn  here  and  there ! 
And  prairie  fowls,  with  feathered  legs, 
Fast  panting  in  the  evening  air ! 

"  And  so,''  said  I,  "  you  love  this  life 
Of  struggles  on  the  woodless  West?" 

"  Wild  Bill  "  replied,  "Well,  I  could  rest 
Once  where  was  less  of  reckless  strife. 
You  see,  sometimes,  one  makes  a  shot 
And  misses;  then  the  game  is  done. 
In  early  life  such  was  my  lot  — 
How  long  ago  !  —  shall  I  go  on  ? 


i4  "  Wild 

"  Well  then  ;  my  Mary  was  a  blonde, 
A  pale  face  mellowed  by  some  care 
Unusual,  so  finely  fair. 
And  I,  somehow,  have  never  found 
A  face,  an  eye,  or  sunny  hair, 
A  heart,  or  head,  or  limbs,  or  breast, 
Or  love,  or  goodness  could  compare 
With  hers,  divinest,  loveliest. 

"  And  when  she  sang,  or  read,  or  spoke, 
Her  slightest  word,  or  shortest  note 
Was  milder  than  the  mildest  lute. 
They  never  cut,  they  never  broke 
The  happiness  of  any  one. 
And  every  child  and  man  and  maid 
Looked  up  and  loved  her,  as  the  sun 
Is  loved  by  every  flower  and  blade. 

\ 
"  And  birds  were  thicker  in  the  trees 

And  sat  and  chattered  unafraid, 

When  she  was  there ;  and,  when  she  prayed. 

All  Nature  seemed  upon  its  knees, 


"  Wild  Bill?  i 

And  rich  bees,  overladen,  came 
And  clustered  on  her  clasped 'hands, 
And  tall-topi  flowers,  with  hearts  aflame, 
Tipped  to  her  cheeks,  as  charmed  wands. 

"  Her  song  was  like  the  melody 
Poured  liquidly  along  the  keys 
Of  some  piano  in  the  skies  — 
Like  some  angelic  symphony, 
That  glideth,  on  its  wings  of  bliss, 
Along  the  glittering,  glassy  sea ; 
For  nothing  bears  so  pure  a  kiss 
Of  Heaven,  as  music's  melody. 

"  I  mind  me  one  time,  when  she  sang 
And  thousands  listened  wondering, 
As  charmed  children  look  and  cling 
And  toss  their  happy  hands  and  hang 
Upon  a  mother's  tender  song  — 
I  mind  me  yet  how  heaved  her  breast 
With  something  deeper  and  more  strong 
Than  many  human  hearts  have  pressed. 


1 6  «  Wild  Bill?    - 

"  Souls  lifted  with  her  lifting  voice. 
While,  shining  with  a  glance  divine, 
Her  blue  blue  eyes  did  overshine 
The  splendor  of  the  sky  a-poise. 
And  bearded  men  look  up  and  weep, 
And  rough  brown  hands  and  brawny  arms 
Lift  up  and  swing,  and  young  folks  leap, 
As  leaps  her  voice,  and  holds,  and  charms. 

"  And,  as  the  tides  rush  to  the  moon, 
A  thousand  waking  sympathies 
Rush  up  to  kiss  her  melting  eyes  — 
And  strong  men,  rising  one  by  one, 
Unthinking,  crowd  and  weep  and  lean 
Like  leaning  ships,  and  children  shout 
And  mingle  in  the  magnet  scene, 
While  white-haired  men  bow  heads  devout! 


44  God  gives  but  one  such  love  as  she, 
With  such  divinely  gifted  feet, 
With  heart  of  such  uncommon  beat, 
Such  bounden  love  and  yet  so  free, 


"WtidSilL"  17 

Though  earth  is  full  on  every  side 
With  many  maidens  true  and  false  — 
I  feign,  be  sure,  when  in  the  tide, 
To  laugh  with  them,  and  shout,  and  waltz. 

"  I  ride  fast  on  life's  path  ;   I  pay 

Too,  as  I  go,  some  say,  alas! 

And  recklessly  I  click  the  glass 

And  snatch  their  hands  and  laugh,  and  say  : 

'  Good-will !    good  game  !' —  What  sayeth 
this  ?  " 

(And  here  he  struck  his  heaving  breast.) 
"  Ah  !  wretches,  how  I  hear  them  hiss 

And  spit  their  poison  slander-pest ! 

"  Gold  glittering  garments,  fold  on  fold, 
That  mantle  false  females,  who  smile 
Like  fallen  angels,  hiding  guile, 
Did  ye  but  know  what  hearts  ye  hold  !  — 
Those  slanderous  tongues  did  murder  her, 
Who  stood  so  nearer  Heaven,  that  she 
Must  reach  far  down  to  where  they  were  — 
This  then  is  why  I'm  what  you  see  ! 


1 8  "Wild  Bill." 

"  This  was  so  long,  O  !  long  ago; 
And  yet  I  see  it  as  if  near ; 
For,  just  as  when  the  Plains  are  sere, 
We  see  a  distant  buffalo 
Stood  off  upon  the  highest  hill, 
Far  better  than  the  nearer  ones 
On  lower  ground,  so,  pale  and  still 
I  see  this  all  the  moons  and  suns. 

"  Then  what  if  minted  silver  shine 
And  rattle  in  the  purse,  and  chink 
In  chests  chained  down  by  diamond  link  ? 
What  if  the  burden  of  a  mine 
Of  minted  gold  should  pouch  and  weigh 
One's  pockets  till  the  '  law '  would  pass 
And  wink,  and  maidens  droop  and  say, 
'  How  rich  !  how  grand  !  — •  yet  sad,  alas  ! ' 

"  Then  what  of  silver-glancing  glint  ? 
And  what  of  gold  and  glowing  gilt "? 
And  palaces  that  tower  and  tilt 
O'er  wide-spread  lands  afar  a-tint 


"Wild  BUI?  19 

With  harvest  wealth  —  that  tower  a-top 
This  little  tilting  toppling  earth? 
All  these  were  but  a  trifling  drop 
To  satisfy  a  world  of  dearth. 


"For  what  were  these,  if  one  must  miss 
The  only  face,  the  only  form, 
The  only  breast  and  clasped  arm, 
The  only  elevating  kiss, 
The  only  hand/whose  press  or  touch 
Could  raise  the  dead  heart,  and  arouse 
One  slumbering  joy,  —  the  only  such 
To  heal  the  heart  that  bleeds  and  bows  ? 

"  The  shadow  of  a  face  and  form, 
The  echo  of  a  broken  kiss, 
The  coffin  of  a  buried  bliss, 
The  phantom  of  a  folding  arm, 
Reflections  of  a  Heaven-hid  eye, 
The  'photo'  of  a  trail  of  hair  — 
These  I  have  bound  in  one  bouquet, 
And  always  at  my  bosom  wear. 


20  "  Wild  Bill? 

"And  this  is  more  to  me  than  all 
The  world  with  all  its  glossy  ore  — 
And  this  sets  nearer  to  the  core 
Of  life  and  heart,  the  'great  in  small.' 
It  matters  not  how  little  it, 
For  anyhow  its  silent  bloom 
Leaves  in  my  spirit  scarce  a  whit 

'Of  one  thing  else  an  inch  of  room. 

"  But  still,  I  swear,  accursed  Defeat ! 
I  will  not  bow,  I  will  not  bend 
The  knee  to  thee,  I  will  not  send 
A  messenger —  I. will  not  beat 
The  gong  of  weakness  —  will  not  start 
A  messenger  ahead  to  shout 
Thy  coming  —  will  not  lift  apart 
A  lip  of  wailing  on  my  rout ! 

"  I  hear  thy  tramp,  I  feel  thy  breath 
Blow  poison  in  my  face,  I  feel 
The  chill  air  from  thy  daggered  steel, 
I  hear  thee  whispering, '  Death  !  death  !  '• 


"Wild  Bill?  21 

Stand  back  !  avaunt !   I  was  not  born 
To  give  way  at  thy  damned  thrust ! 
That  I  will  slay  thee  I  have  sworn, 
Or  drive  thee  as  the  wind  drives  dust ! 


u  What  care  I  for  the  curse  of  fools  ? 
Or  if  my  creed  be  orthodox  ? 
Since  hearts  of  orthodox  are  rocks, 
Or  flattery-fed  and  fawning  tools. 
What  if  I  see  despised  dolts, 
Whose  hands  I  would  not  stoop  to  hold, 
Step  up  and  lift  the  rusted  bolts 
That  open  into  rooms  of  gold "? 

"  My  heart  is  as  the  mighty  tent, 
The  canvass  of  a  mighty  show, 
Where  fierce  desires  growl,  crouching  low, 
And  surly  lusts  are  barred  and  pent 
In  chariots  painted  splendor-fair. 
(God  keep  them  pent !  let  loose,  who  knows 
What  desolation  and  despair 
May  follow  where  their  raging  goes!)  — 


22  "  Wild  Bill" 

"  Where  hopes,  like  gilt-clad  tumblers  toss 
And  wheel  and  tumble  in  a  ring, 
And  circle  in  its  dust,  and  sing, 
And  marks  of  misery  emboss 
By  surface-shine,  while  all  within 
Is  sickness  watching  with  the  dead 
Automatons  amid  the  din 
And  dust  and  wild  and  weary  tread  ! 

"O  red-winged  life  !  with  bloody  beak 
Scouring  the  wild  plains  of  my  heart 
To  catch  prey  for  the  hungry  mart 
Of  misery  !   I  was  not  weak  — 
I  paid  them  for  their  godless  sneers, 
No  matter  how  —  I  made  them  feel 
The  reflux  of  my  youthful  tears 
Drop  back  on  them  like  frozen  steel. 

"  I  know  not  what  may  lie  beyond ; 
I  care  not  what  may  face  me  here  — 
Of  life  or  death  I  have  no  fear. 
I've  built  my  heart-tomb  massive-stoned; 


"  Wild  Bilir  23 

So,  though  my  body  never  dies, 

Nor  men,  nor  maids,  nor  fame,  nor  gold, 

Can  look  upon  the  placid  eyes 

Of  my  heart's  Love  in  dead  white  fold!  " 

A  cloud,  to  east  in  upper  air, 
Was  dipping  from  the  boiling  sea 
Her  golden  waves.     It  bent  its  knee 
And  dipped,  and  lifting,  unaware, 
Some  oversplashed  its  cup,  and  fell 
And  flashed  afar  a  lightning  flash, 
And  sounded  with  the  distant  swell 
Of  thunder  with  its  hoarse-toned  plash. 

And  speckled  prairie  fowls  arose 
In  cackling  swarms, and  skimmed  the  sky — 
Made  mimic  thunder,  passing  by, 
With  wings  arched  as  the  bend  of  bows ; 
And    meadow-larks    closed    their    tender 

strains 

To  weep  above  the  coffined  day, 
When  muttering  something  of  "  the  Plains  " 
And  "  charity,"  he  rode  away. 


IOLA. 

x- 

TOLA  blushed  and  dropped  her  head, 

And  fondled  my  hand,  and  teased,  and  said : 
"  Now  tell  me  the  tale  you  used  to,  when 
I  was  a  laughing  girl,  as  then 
You  told  me,  swinging  over  the  gate, 
Forgetting  the  hour  was  growing  late." 
And  so  I  smiled,  as  I  raised  her  head, 
And  chucked  her  under  the  chin,  and  said  : 

"  The  Plains  were  as  wide  as  the  widest  sea  ; 
And  the  top  was  alive  with  a  toss  of  glee 
The  whole  year  through;  and  the  houses  stood 
As  few  as  ships  on  the  ocean  flood  — 
'Twas  there  I  dwelt  with  the  bride  whose  eyes 
Were  violet,  black,  nor  the  color  of  skies, 
But  a  beautiful  color,  nor  wild,  nor  tame, 
A  color  that  never  has  found  a  name. 

The  land  was  as  broad  as  the  broadest  main 
Forever  a-surge  —  Again  and  again 
The  waves  were  green,  with  a  painted  foam  ; 
And  again  and  again,  as  the  dry  winds  came 


lola.  2  5 

In  the  heated  August,  and  the  longing  eye 
Saw  never  a  cloud,  in  the  flushing  sky 
The  size  of  a  hand,  has  the  green  turned  gray, 
And  again  and  again  has  the  gray  grass  spray, 
As  the  Indian  summer  sun  looked  down, 
Turned  from  a  gray  to  a  deader  brown. 

One  time  we  stood  and  the  stern  round  sun, 
When  the  east  was  red  and  the  west  was  dun, 
Rose  burning  so  hot  that  the  grasses'  spires 
With  dew-tips  tossing  like  tongues  of  fires, 
Strung  off  to  the  east  as  a  caravan 
Of  pilgrims  clad  in  flame,  and  ran 
And  swung  their  arms  and,  one  by  one, 
Seemed  pouring  into  the  templed  sun. 

Then,  as  the  east  was  glowing  red, 
The  upper  heavens  turned  dun  and  dead  ; 
And,  low  in  the  west  and  pinned  to  land, 
Flowed  up  two  strips  of  a  rainbow  band, 
And  torn  and  bloody  and  blue,  alack-! 
And  caught  in  a  cloud  of  green-tinged  black. 

And  ever  then,  as  the  bow  shone  brighter, 
The  tint  to  the  orient  red  grew  lighter 
And  less  and  less,  as  a  dying  crater, 


26  I ola. 

And  the  green-tinged   black  grew    darker   and 
greater. 

The  wind  kept  stopping,  then  starting  again, 
And  looking  a-west  and  pulling  the  rein 
To  rest  his  steed  till  the  cloud  should  come, 
When,  spurring  his  steed  in  the  stormy  gloom, 
High  over  his  tangled  and  dusty  mane 
He  would  swing  his  hands  and  swoop  the  plain 
And  shout  and  sing  till  the  prairies  ring 
And  the  frightened  grasses  drop  and  cling 
To    the   sounding    ground   a-quail    with   thun 
der  !— 
And  then,  as  we  looked,  the  sun  went  under. 

'  Such  a  terrible  sky,  on  a  rain-bowed  morning 
Is  our,  as  well  as  a  sailor's  warning  ! ' 
She  said,  as  she  pressed  her  cheek  to  mine, 
And  her  chestnut  hair  did  kiss  and  twine 
And  mingle  with   mine.     Now,  clasping  her, 
I  shuddered  to  feel  her  bosom  stir 
With  a  beat  it  never  had  beaten  before. 
I  looked  in  her  face  —  a  tear  fell  o'er 
My  darling's  cheek  !  —  for  she,  you  know 
Was  young  as  a  girl,  as  yet,  and  so 


lola.  2  7 

I  called  her  my  '  darling '  and  *  girl,'  'tis  true  ; 
But  you  are  older  than  she,  and  you 
Are  prouder  and  bolder  than  she;  and  I 
Somehow  could  never,  I  know  not  why, 
Call  you  the  same  as  her  —  however, 
My  love  for  you  is  strong  as  a  river  — 
And  so.  if  I  never  should  give  you  the  name 
That  I  gave  to  her,  it  is  all  the  same. 

Then  a  terrible  rush  of  wind  came  on, 
Whirling  the  dust,  and  then  —  was  gone. 
Not  a  single  mote  of  the  world  in  motion  !  — 
Still  as  a  heart  in  last  devotion  ! 

The  black  o'er-head  then  flashed  with  fire  — 
And  the  stillness  startled  as  if  a  lyre, 
Whose  wires  hung  spanning  the  universe, 
Were  struck  to  mutter  a  mighty  curse  ! 
The  world  awoke,  with  the  pealing  noise, 
And1  startled  and  shook,  as  a  mote,  a-poise, 
Would  shiver  upon  a  quivering  thread  ! 
Scarcely  the  stunning  sound  was  dead, 
When  the  sudden  rush  of  a  fiery  flood 
Streamed  over  the  heavens.     I  started  — 
stood!  — 


28  Iota. 

And  a  burning  bullet,  a  blazing  ball, 

Shot  down  from  the  battery  clouds,  where  wall 

On  wall  is  set  with  cannon  to  war 

The  world  below  —  fell  like  a  star  — 

Flew  red  and  swift,  and  a  scented  heat 

Followed  the  trail  of  its  flashing  feet ! 

And,  hissing  by,  as  a  heated  dart, 

Its  breath  I  feel  —  I  cling  —  I  start  — 

But — never  a  breath  again,  and  never 

Another  word,  from  her  lips  forever !  " 


AH! WELL! 

T  TE.  gazing  on  the  ruined  mound, 

Said  to  the  group  that  gathered  round : 
I  saddled,  like  an  Indian  brave, 
Our  Indian  ponies  standing  trim 
With  feet  entwisted  in  the  wave 
Of  wild  grass  breaking  like  a  tide, 
Their  eager  eyes  cast  out,  in  pride, 
Into  the  distance,  doubtful,  dim. 
Our  hopes  were  high  — our  loves  were  set 
With  deeper  hold  than  ever  yet 
Were  jewels  in  the  massy  gold  — 
And  thus  high-hoped  we  mounted  steeds. 
The  first  wheel,  as  they  stirred  the  grass 
To  motion  with  their  prancing  feet, 
They  started  from  his  coiling  fold 
Beneath  a  shady  clump  of  weeds, 
A  rattle-snake,  that  rattled  hoarse 
And  lifted  up  his  head  to  greet 
Us  with  his  eyes  of  lead-like  glass, 
And  startled  us  from  out  our  course. 


30  Ah!    Well! 

"  We  spurred,  and,  drawing  tighter  rein, 
Went  dashing  o'er  the  endless  plain. 

"  And  then  sometimes  my  fair  one  sung 
The  sweetest  and  the  purest  song 
That  ever  flowed  o'er  human  tongue. 
And  as  she  sang,  at  times,  I  flung 
My  hat  into  the  air,  and  she 
Would  catch  and  hand  it  back  to  me. 
This  is  one  blessing  that  we  bear 
With  us  upon  the  boundless  plain  : 
We  are  not  held  in  the  restrain 
Of  customs  that  would  cramp  the  free; 
And  so  we  sing  or  shout  at  will 
And  gallop,  with  no  thought  of  fear  — 
We  need  suppress  no  single  word 
Of  love,  to  whisper,  '  Hush,  be  still ! 
Take  care  !  for  we  are  overheard  ! ' 
For  all  that  roam  upon  the  Plain 
Have  charity,  and  so  refrain 
From  anything  that  tastes  of  blame  — 
This  is  the  blessing  that  we  claim. 
O  give  me  then  my  land  of  plain, 


Ah!    Well!  31 

Where  all  is  as  it  is,  and  this 
Is  as  God  made  it,  with  the  kiss 
Of  freshness  and  of  purity  ! 

"  We  loved  well  in  the  selfish  east, 
Loved  well  and  warmly,  still  '  were  wise,' 
Though  others  said  not  so,  alas ! 
They  whispered  what  they  knew  not;  we  — 
Well,  we  '•were  wise  '  —  but  let  this  pass  — 
And  so  we  came  where  love  is  love, 
Not  bland  formalities,  or  lies, 
Or  simperings  of  soulless  fools  — 
Where  God  is  judge  of  chastities  — 
Where  love  is  not  a  set  of  rules, 
That  bind  so  tight  and  press  so  hard 
They  press  its  sweetness  all  away  — 
Where  love  is  not  a  tight  gold  glove 
That  ruins,  while  it  hides,  the  hand, 
And  leaves  it  cramped  and  cut  and  scarred. 
We  too  were  riding  in  the  sun, 
We  two  rode  leisurely,  as  one  — 
Rode  on  and  sung,  without  a  fear. 
One  buffalo  browsed  on  a  hill 


32  Ah!    Well! 

Four  miles  away,  and  yet  seemed  near  — 

Now  browsed,  now  looked  as  sentinel 

For  some  great  herd  beyond  below. 

Blue-racers  glided  swift  between, 

Parting  the  gray-tipt  tides  of  green. 

Great  bull-snakes   dragged  themselves  away  — 

And  unwound  blood-snakes,  stretched  out,  lay 

Harmless  in  the  shade  of  weeds. 

And  now  and  then  jack-rabbits  ran 

Away  from  us  with  gaits  and  speeds, 

That  made  them  seem  as  wild  dwarf  steeds. 

And  wild  fowls  flutter  up  and  fan 

The  grass  in  eddies,  as  they  go. 

But  now  as  it  drew  on  to  noon 

I  wished  we  never  had  begun 

The  chase,  the  sun  came  down  so  hot. 

For,  as  I  looked  on  her,  I  thought 

All  was  not  right;  somehow  the  heat 

Fell  down  so  like  a  fire-armed  foe. 

Her  queenly  blood,  with  swifter  beat, 

Kept  bounding  to  her  flushing  cheek. 

Somehow  I  thought  her  clasp  more  weak 

Than  when  she  clasped  an  hour  agone, 


Ah!    Well!  33 

And  that  her  song,  when  then  she  sung, 
Was  softer  in  its  touch  and  tone. 

"  Life  is  just  such  a  race  as  this, 
Begins  in  love  and  balmy  bliss, 
And  ends  in  hot  sun's  heat  and  hiss. 
Our  hopes  are  scarcely  well  begun 
Before  they  end,  and  end  amiss ; 
And  leave  us,  black-robed  as  a  nun, 
To  wish  it  never  had  been  run. 

Run  slow,  young  boys  and  joyful  girls  ; 
Or,  ere  aware,  your  flooding  curls 
Will  be  thin  white,  or  dull  dead  gray; 
And  afternoon  will  be  so  short ; 
And  slower  ones  will  come  and  say : 
'  I  knew  !   I  knew  ! '     weep  and  escort 
Your  coffin  to  its  cave  of  clay. 
Be  boys  and  girls  long  as  you  may, 
And  do  not  mind,  if  fast  men  mock 
And  women  sneer  because  you  play. 
Haste  not  to  lay  your  childhood  by. 
It  is  a  cooler,  lighter  cloak 
Than  old  ones  wear  —  stay  longer  nigh 


34  Ah!    Well! 

The  hut  door  at  the  first  of  life. 
Young  girl,  haste  not  to  be  a  wife. 

"  Run  slow,  run  slow,  I  say,  run  slow  ! 
The  swifter  run  to  heated  noon, 
The  shorter  afternoon  to  run. 
Be  boys  and  girls  long  as  you  can ; 
For,  if  you  never  leave  your  youth, 
You  never  need  reach  back  your  arms, 
In  vain,  for  childhood's  fleeing  truth  — 
Need  not  look  back  and  weep  and  throw 
Out  tackles  after  loved  lost  pasts  — 
Tis  nothing  more  to  be  a  man 
Than  this  :  to  climb  up  broken  masts 
And  wrestle  in  the  shrieking  blasts, 
Cry  chorus  with  the  crashing  thunder 
And  roaring  waters  plunging  under, 
And  strike  fists  with  the  whirling  storms, 
And  then  go  down  the  sea  at  last 
And  sink  amid  cold  clutching  forms, 
While    young   folks    stand,    and    look,    and 

wonder 
Why  older  lives  are  cloud  o'ercast ! 


Ah!    Well!  35 

'Tis  worse  than  this  to  be  a  woman. 
Be  all  you  can  —  be  true  —  be  human  ; 
But  still  be  boys  and  girls,  at  least ; 
For  '  manhood  '  often  means  but  'beast ' ; 
And  to  be  woman  means  —  to  wed?  — 
And  wailings  for  the  past  and  dead  *? 

"  My  young  bright  girl,  with  golden  curl, 
Men  look  on  you  and  call  you  '  Pearl '  — 
To  still  be  '  pearl,'  remain  a  girl. 

"  The  sun  grew  hotter  as  it  slid 
Down  from  the  centre  to  the  west. 
The  sky  above  seemed  concave  steel 
Reflecting  all  the  heat  to  earth. 
The  hard  red  sun,  the  while  he  did 
His  way  adown  the  curved  sky, 
Seemed  striking  fire  anew,  yet  pressed 
Swift  onward,  and  a  liquid  fire 
Seemed  curling  round  his  red-hot  keel. 

I  looked  up  in  her  drooping  eye 
And  needed  no  electric  wire 
To  tell  me  we  must  wheel  us  back  — 
Re-run  in  haste,  the  forenoon's  track. 


36  Ah!   Well! 

"  Our  canteen,  swung  to  saddle  horn, 
Grew  lighter  every  mile  we  ran  — 
Grew  warmer  every  breath  we  took. 
Our  faithful  ponies'  heads  began 
To  lower  with  their  loss  of  speed  ; 
For  hot  and  tired,  their  heads  were  borne 
Less  lordly  than  at  early  morn. 
My  darling  cast  a  pitying  look 
Upon  her  pets,  her  prides,  her  steeds, 
And  leaned  and  stroked  their  necks  and  wept 
And  spoke  a  few  kind  words.     They  raised 
Their  heads  to  hear  her  voice  again  — 
One  moment  only  —  then  they  fell. 
And  still  the  dry  sun  hotter  blazed. 

"  Our  canteen  now  swung  like  a  bell, 
Rung,  hollow  drained,  hung  dry,  and  shone 
And  tolled  at  every  bound  — and  this 
Is  why  a  bell-knell  sounds  so  fell. 

"  More  languidly  the  steeds  went  on, 
Half  stumbling  by  the  clinging  kiss 
Of  sun-curled,  dying  blades  of  grass. 


Ah!    Well!  37 

"  She  leaned  on  me  —  O  !  could  I  rest 
Her  now  upon  my  wayward  breast !  — 
She  then  pressed  face  to  mine  and  yearned 
To  say  what  —  never  has  been  said. 
I  lifted  up  her  falling  head  ; 
Mine  nearer  to  her  lips  I  pressed, 
That  I  might  feel  what  thought  did  move 
Unheard,  upon  her  lips  of  love  — 
I  held  my  breath !  —  she  smiled  and  cast 
Her  blue  eyes  up  to  heaven  —  they  turned, 
From  sweet  blue  eyes,  to  —  staring  glass  / 

"No  wonder  then  I  sit  and  tell 
Myself  fat  story  o'er  and  o'er  — 
Stand  looking  from  my  humble  door 
And  watch  the  grass  and  sigh,  '  Ah  !  Well ! ' 


WOLSBIN. 

HT^IS  sad  to  see  the  last  leaves  fall  and  float 
Off  on  the  freezing  stream  to  some  broad 

bay 

To  mingle  with  the  drift  of  many  a  boat, 
Shattered  and  tossing  helpless  night  and  day 
Upon  its  top-pitched  swell ;  'tis  sad  to  note 
The  fade  of  twilight;  it  is  sad  to  lay 
The  last  sun-beam  upon  the  couch  of  night, 
And   know  that,  ere  it  wakes,  some  soul    takes 
flight; 

'Tis  sad,  'tis  sad  to  see  the  last  brown  blade 
Of  grass  buried  beneath  the  first  white  snow 
Of  winter ;  'tis  sad  to  hear,  across  the  glade, 
The  mellow  song  of  some  lone  bird,  and   know 
That,  when  its  plaintive  dying  notes  shall  fade 
To  silence,  'tis  the  last ;  'tis  sadder,  though, 
To  follow  out  the  last  friend  —  as  a  wave, 
A  body,  dead,  afloat  —  to  a  silent  grave  ! 


Wo  Is  bin.  39 

Now  there  was  left  but  one  he  called  his  friend, 
And  she  began  to  think  she  could  not  stand 
His  loss  of  fortune;  so  it  put  an  end 
To  her  fond  love,  when  once  she  heard  his  land 
Had    scattered    with    his   parents    death.     She 

penned 

Wolsbin  a  heartless  note,  with  the  cold  demand 
To  meet  her  for  a  last  "  good-by  "  ;  for  the  time 
Has  come  when  to  be  poor  is  called  a  crime. 

"  So  I  must  go,"  said  he,  "  I  know  not  where. 
Perhaps  the  midnight  noise  of  dance  may  float 
Over  this  stream  unvisited  and  fair; 
And,  in  the  music's  wild  sweep,  you   may  note 
The  muffled  tread  of  feet  that  used  to  bear 
Up  from    the   brink   gay  blossoms,    while  you 

wrote 

And  wove  their  beauty  in  impassioned  thanks 
To  heaven  and  me  —  wrote  by  these  banks. 

"  Perhaps  the  lonely  lot  of  some  wild  rover 
May  find  me  warring  with  the  solitude 
Of  ruined  heart-hopes  lying  scattered  over 


40  Wolsbin. 

The  buried  fields  of  trusting  childhood's  wood 
And  plain,  where  we   were   wont  to  love   and 

hover 

Around   each   other's  wishes  —  where  the  flood 
Of  thy  gold  hair  was  wont  to  pour  and  toy 
With  dancing  breezes  leaping  wild  with  joy. 

"  Perhaps  a  bloated  body,  on  the  tide 
Of  some  soft-tinted  sunset  of  the  West, 
Unseen,  unsaved,  unwept,  unknown,  may  ride 
A  wave  amid  its  sprayed  and  sparkling  crest 
To  that  fair  sighing  shore,  and  lie  undried 
Upon  its  silvery  sands  — then  know  the  rest, 
That  this  dull  head  was  tossed  upon  the    billow 
Till  lifeless  left  upon  its  watery  pillow  ! 

"Perhaps  we'll  meet  beyond  the  grave  —  how  sad 
The  uncertainty  in  that  strange  word  perhaps  / 
Perhaps  *?    the  very  thought   would  drive   one 

mad. 

Such  doubt,  while    looking  in  the  future,  wraps 
A  sleety  shroud  upon  the  heart.     O,  had 
We  surety  we  will  meet  again  !  —  But  flaps 


Wolsbin.  41 

Still  that  uncertain  leaf —  Perhaps,  then,  we 
May  walk  with  Christ  upon  the  crystal  sea  ! 

"  You  tell  me  these  have  been  your  happiest  days, 

And  that  amid  your  dreariness,  regret 

Will  never  pain  you  that  our  wandering  ways 

Beneath  the  light  of  Heaven  ever  met, 

And  that  your  heart  still  pants  and  prays 

For  mine.     You  say  those  days  throw  round  you 

yet, 

In  golden  fabric,  all  your  youth's  bright  hue. 
'Tis  blotting  out  the  sun  —  but  still,  Adieu  !  " 

And  so  they  parted,  —  he  gone  a- wandering 
And  weary  hearted,  although  ever  striving 
To  find  another  to  fasten  his  meandering 
Mind,  while  Luella  still  kept  eager  driving 
Her  new  planned  suit,  her   misturned   life  thus 

squandering 

On  dreams  of  pelf,  leading  a  way  of  living 
To    rue   when   old.       False    God,    demon    of 

money, 

Whose  temple  is  a  hive  of  poisoned  honey  ! 
4 


42  Wo  Is  bin. 

He  thought :  This  life  is  but  a  crooked  stream 
That  hisseth  slowly  through  the  world's  wide 

meadow ; 

And  worldly  love  is  but  an  idle  dream 
Afloat  upon  its  surface,  like  a  shadow. 
And  then  he  turned  and  looked  upon  the  gleam 
Of  Mammon's  temple  —  saw  an  Eldorado, 
He  thought,  lie  spread  beyond.     So  he  redressed, 
And  packed  his  trunk,  and  started  for  the  West. 

And  where  he  was  for  two  long  years  thereafter 
Nobody  ever  knew.     At  least  he  grew 
Immensely  rich,  so  suddenly  the  rafter 
Of  the  old  hut  in  his  heart  fell  down  for  a  new  • 
And  stately  mansion,  which  with  feigned  laugh 
ter 

E'er  echoed.  Yet,  though  kept  unseen,  'twas  true 
His  heart  in  those  two  busy  years  grew  old. 
We  find  him  now  returning  with  his  gold. 

And,  as  he  rode  along  the  broad  Missouri, 

He  saw  another  engine  rushing  over 

On  thfc  other  side  — just  as,  beyond  the  worry 


Wo  Is  din.  43 

Of  this  fleet  world,  doffing  our  mortal  cover, 
Landing  beyond  the  river's  turbid  fury, 
When  safe  upon  its  new-found  brink  we  hover 
A  train  from  Heaven  will  take  us  to  a  lot 
In  fields  of  Paradise  —  'twas  thus  he  thought. 

In  the  meantime  when  Wolsbin  was  at  home, 
That  is,  what  used  to  be  his  home,  he  heard 
Luella  was  unmarried  still,  and  some 
Place  o'er  in  Europe  :  and  it  was  the  word 
That  she  would  set   sail   back   in  a  week  from 

Rome. 

At  this,  of  course,  his  heart  was  wildly  stirred. 
And  so  he  hastened  to  the  sea  to  greet  her 
Coming,  and  yet  he  scarcely  dared  to  meet  her. 

And  there  he  waited  for  the  vessel  bearing 
Her  homeward,  when  the  news  came  of  a  wreck ; 
That  it  had  struck  a  hidden  rock,  while  near- 
ing 

A  new-found  land,  and  that  the  broken  deck 
Whirled  in  a  maelstrom,  like  a  wind-tossed  speck, 
And  then  shot  down'  like  lightning  with  the  dead. 


44  Wo  Is  bin. 

May  God  forgive  him  what  his  pale  lips  said ! 
May  men  not  hear  it !  But  enough,  he  wept 
A  moment,  then  he  sat  and  looked  upon 
The  waves,  until  a  spell  upon  him  crept. 
The  ocean  changed  —  he  saw  a  lurking  stone  — 
A  whizzing  maelstrom  just  beyond  it  swept  — 
He  saw  the  powerless  dizzy  ship  go  down; 
Then  — not  a  remnant  of  the  wreck  did  float. 
May  Heaven  bless  him  for  these  lines  he  wrote  : 

"So  here  I  am,  homeless.       The  brown   leaves 

flow 

Over  my  weary  head  :  and,  while  I  kneel 
Upon  this  sand-shore,  tears  of  woe 
Spoiling  my  cheeks,  how  well,  too  well,  I  feel, 
I  feel  —  I  know  not  what  I  feel !  —  but  O  ! 
When  Heaven's  angel  shall  this  sea  unseal, 
May  I  not  with  her  from  her  salt-wrapt  grave 
Go  forth  *?  and   once  more  tell  her  I  forgave  *?" 

He  bent  his  knee  upon  the  brined  shore, 
Alone,  except  these  memories  and  God  — 
Knelt  where  the  billows  throw  forevermore 


Wo  Is  bin.  45 

Their  storms  of  foam  upon  the  filtering  sod, 
And  offered  up  a  prayer  —  then  rose  and  bore 
Away  upon  his  heart  the  dreary  load, 
The   brine-bleached   dead,    the   wayward  loved 

white  dead, 
And    kissed  her  lifting   hands,  and    breast,  and 

head. 

He  feigned  full  many  a  smile  and  many  a  laugh 
And  far-fetched  merriment  and  soulless  glance, 
And  strove  to  scatter  with  his  friends  the  chaff 
Of  levity,  and  laugh  to  see  it  dance 
In  thoughtless  joying;  and  he  strove  to  quaff 
The  glass  of  glee,  but  there  there  lurked  a  trance, 
A  curse  that  turned  the  liquid  into  foam : 
He  drank  its  nothingness  to  the  health  of  home. 

And  people  called  him  cold :  they  did  not  see 
Beneath  his  gay  and  jewel-flashing  coat, 
The  painful  throb  —  did  not  observe  the  tree 
On  which  his  hopes  hung  crucified,  nor  note 
The  crowns  of  thorns  pressed  in  his  heart.  O  ! 
we 


46  Wolsbin. 

Are  cruel  to  the  sorrowing  world,  and  gloat 
Over  our  own  small  pains  !     They  called  him 

cold, 
But  knew  not  that  his  heart  was  gray  and  old ! 

"  This  looking  through  the  porthole  of  the  tomb," 
He  said,  "  this  measuring  one's  own  ebon  coffin, 
And  carving  one's  own  tombstone  in  the  gloom 
Of  eve  —  this  singing  one's  own  dirge,  and  often 
Sitting  at  twilight  in  this  damp  drear  room  ; 
This  waiting  for  a  broken  heart  to  soften 
Its  sorrow  in  the  grave;  this  fever  to  die  — 
Would  burn  the  last  tear  from  the  weary  eye. 

"  For,  O  !  Luella,  though  the  world  befriend, 
And  strive  to  cover,  with  their  garlands  smiling, 
The  hungry  future,  while  the  prairies  lend 
Their  gorgeous  splendor,  with  their  boiling 
In  the  wind,  yet  mourning  fancy  will  but  bend 
Down  o'er  thee  lying  in  the  sea,  dead  toiling 
With  the  waves  —  still  memories  of  thee  I  pon 
der, 
Although  broad  roaming  and  as  wild  as  yonder 


Wolsbin.  47 

"  Untamed  bird  sitting  on  the  mountain  pine, 
Which,  solitary  from  its  mount-top,  flows 
Above  the  vale,  which,  like  an  emerald  line, 
Wends  round  the  base.  The  very  wind  that  blows 
Reminds  of  thee  —  the  very  stars  that  shine 
Seem    gleaming    like  thine  eyes ;  and  dim  seen 

bows 

Of  promise  in  the  valley  mists,  seem  bending 
Like  those  that  used  to  arch  thine  eyes,  and  lend 
ing 

"  A  lustre  to   their  misty  tears  —  and  thus  to 

wait 

And  wait  for  what  will  never,  never  be  — 
Ah  !  surely  this  is  Time's  most  cruel  fate  ! 
But  then,  althro'  the  flowers  of  mystery, 
And  doubt,  and  fear,  and  pain,  is  not  a  straight 
And  narrow  way  that  leads  up  to  the  tree 
Of  life,  that  blooms  and  gleams  beneath  the  light 
Of  Christ  upon  the  holy  mountain  height  ? 

"  Who  knows  when  parted  once  how  long  till 
met? 


48  Wolsbin. 

This  Sabbath  evening,  not  an  echo  breaks 
The  sombre  quiet.      Gold  specks  'gin  to  fret 
The   sky;  and   now  and    then    some  glistening 

flakes 

Of  frost  go  softly  floating  by,  then  set 
Again,  and  melt  into  the  little  lake's 
Waves,  like  small  stars  gone  down.     So   man 

floats  on 
A  moment    through  this  world,  and    then   is 

gone  !  " 


"THE  LONG-HAIRED   BARBARIAN." 

\  "\  THAT  unusual  color  of  hair  ! 

What  weight   of  hair  on   his  shoulders 

square 

And  broad,  and  lifting  bold,  and  clad 
In  raiment  as  quaint  and  grand  and  old 
And  rich  as  a  king's  in  times  old-told ! 
And,  when  he  was  known  on  the  Kansan  plain, 
His  foemen  fancied  his  fold  of  hair, 
As  he  ran  in  the  wind  and  they  knew  him  mad, 
Shook  as  a  furious  lion's  mane. 
But  now,  as  he  sat  on  the  shore  a-sad, 
Receiving  and  believing  the  telegrams 
Come  up  through  a  quarter-hundred  years, 
The  storm  of  his  hair  did  seem  as  the  fair 
Falling  folds  of  an  orphan  child's. 

Stopping  and  dropping  his  cane  on  the  sands, 
He  turned  and  lifted  his  kingly  hands, 
With  rings  as  rich  as  that  of  the  Pope, 


50          "  The  Long-Haired  Barbarian" 

And,  looking  into  the  trembling  palms, 
Followed  the  course  of  the  cuts  and  mangled 
Trenches  over  his  palms,  in  hope 
To  trace  to  the  place  where,  crossed  and  tan 
gled- 
Trace  to  the  place,  now  near  at  hand, 
Where  the  wayward  lines  shall  have  measured 
and  spanned 

His  length  of  life 

"  Great  God !  what  wilds 
Of  tossing  and  crossing  forests,  and  places 
Of  fallen  flowers  and  reaching  grasses 
And  deserts,  and  places  of  skeleton  faces ! 
What  Godless  struggles  and  foul  grimaces 
Of  demons  over  the  dead  on  the  plains ! 
What  blood-red  rivers  !  how  many  a  curse ! 
What  crimes  and  frauds  !  what  budless  rods 
Have  lifted  and  smitten  the  rocks  for  gains  — 
Lifted,  alas  !  commanded  by  gods, 
But  gods  of  evil  —  filling  the  purse, 
But  robbing  the  heart  and  heaven  !  Great  God  ! 
What  a  checkered  and  stained  and  sin-strewn 
course 


"  The  Long-Haired  Barbarian?          5 1 

These  broken  lines  on  my  palms  betoken  ! 
What   marring   and    scarring   and    tears    and 

blood  !  " 

He  said  —  when  his  will,  so  bold  and  oaken, 
Grappled  his  lips  when  this  was  spoken 
And  snatched  from  their  hold,  so  cruelly  cold, 
Something  about  to  set  them  a-trill  — 
Snatched,  and  latched  his  lips  lock  still, 
Still  as  the  lips  of  a  god  of  gold, 
Of  the  golden  image  in  Dura  of  old 

Then  after  a  moment  he  lifted  his  head 
And  mastered  his  will,  and  his  lips  unwed  : 
"  'Twas  on  the  disorderly  Kansan  border 
I  lived  with  her  amid  the  disorder 
Of  ruffian  races,  and  struggled  for  order, 
And  baffled  the  cunning  of  red-men  running 
Wild  as  the  winds,  and  baffled  the  shifting 
Cold  winds  of  the  winter,  lifting  and  drifting 
Snow-winds    of  the  weather,    and    baffled    the 

cunning 

Of  the  hurricaned  fire-fiend  lapping  and  lifting." 
He  went  on  to  say,  growing  warmer  and  bolder, 
One  hand  on  his  knee,  in  the  sand  and  the  sea 


52          "  The  Long-Haired  Barbarian? 

His  cane  free-fallen,  like  the  trunk  of  a  tree  — 
One  hand  on  his  knee  and  one  on  my  shoulder  — 

"  Our  hut  stood  alone  on  the  Kansan  border, 
Stood  long  and  lone  in  disorder  and  order, 
Where  a  river  rolled  by  in  a  wonderful  way. 
In  high-water  time,  it  swept  to  the  door, 
While  flowered  floods  of  grasses  broke  up  from 

behind  — 

The  floods  of  wild   grasses,  whose  waving  sur 
passes 

This  Mexican  gulf  for  folding  its  masses. 
When  the  river  was  low,  it  ruffled  the  reeds 
That  grew  in   the  stream,   as  the  flowers   and 

weeds 

Are  stirred  in  the  grass  with  its  waves  unbrined, 
And  the  tides  of  the  ocean  of  grass  broke  in 

spray 
'Gainst  the  river,  set  along  as  a  rock  on  a  shore. 

"'Twas  a  wonder  the  way  the  unusual  bloom 
Was  over  and  under  every  hollow  and  hill  ! 
It  seemed  to   me   then   that  the  heavens  shone 
brighter, 


The  Long-Haired  Barbarian."          5  3 

And  seldom  poured  tears  through  the  veils  of  a 

cloud. 
It  seemed  to    me    then    the  few  clouds  lifted 

lighter 
Their  feet,  in  their  march  down  the  sky,  as  they 

fell. 
It  seemed  to   me  too   that  the   stars  had  more 

room 
To  play  on   the  cheek  of  the  night,  when  we 

bowed 
Two   hands  full  of  flowers,    and   two    full    of 

hands, 

Counting  and  recounting  the  days  and  the  years 
We  had  loved  and  might  love  —  four  eyes  full 

of  tears 
And   of  stars,   twin    stars  flung  afar  from   the 

skies. 

"  Flowers    pillowed,  afloat    on    the   billows    of 

grass, 

Stemmed  slender  as  willows  and  gaudy  as  glass 
Paned  and  stained  with  marvelous  dyes, 
Were  twirled  in  the  wind,  as  stars  on  high 
Twirl  over  the  billows  of  blue  as  they  pass, 


54          "  The  Long-Haired  Barbarian? 

A  whirl  from  the  east  and  a  wheel  to  the  west, 
And  play  through  the  forests  and  gleam  on  the 

sands, 

Then  settle  and  set  in  the  Occident  mist. 
And  there  was  our  shrine ;  and  the  bloom-spread 

sod 
Knew  more  of  the  pressure  of  knees  that  were 

knelt 

In  simple  devotion  than  many  a  shrine 
In  temples  divine,  gold-lettered  '  To  God' ! 
Those  untamed  blossoms  have  clung  to  her  lips 
And  tipt,  gay  lipt,  to  her  cheeks  for  hours  — 
This  was    our   temple,  and    the    stars    were    its 

towers. 

"  And  why  I  am  here  in  the  heat  of  the  South, 
Why   a   hard    man    speaks    with    a   quivering 

mouth  — 

Why  rich,  yet  alone  on  the  wide  world's  lea, 
Can  soon  be  learned,  if  you  listen.  —  You  see, 
The  wind  all  day,  as  a  heated  monsoon, 
Swept  up  from  the  south.     An  occasional  cloud 
In  the    west,  lay  a-surge  on  the  verge  of  the 

world, 


"  The  Long-Haired  Barbarian"          55 

Half  gilded  with  gold  and  half  hid  in  the  smoke 

Of  an  Indian  summer,  that  curled  up  and  furled 

Its  fold  upon  fold  through  the  wold  of  the  sky  — 

Blew  swift  in  the  morning  and  swifter  at  noon  ; 

And  still  when  the  sun  stood  bushing  a-hover 

Over  the  placid  Pacific  ocean, 

As  a  fond  one  bowing  with  love's  devotion 

Over  a  tranquil  slumbering  lover, 

The  wind  blew  prouder  and  louder  a-loud. 

"  Gray  grasses  of  autumn  arose  in  their  bed, 
Tossed  up  in  the  wind,  surged  past,  then  broke 
Into  eddies ;  and  dust  to  the  wind  was  whirled, 

As  spume  is  blown  up  from  the  ocean 

And  I 
Stood  holding  my  chestnut-haired  bride,  as  she 

shook 

In  my  arms  and  shivered  to  see  the  sun  set 
Blood-red,  and  the  wind  not  set  with  the  sun  !  — 
Threw  her  arms  to  my  neck  and  her  head  to  my 

breast, 

Clung  closer, and  closer,  and  shook,  as  she  said  : 
'  Whatif  tribes  to  the  south  set  fire  out  to-night! ' 


56          "  The  Long-Haired  Barbarian^ 

I  quailed  as  she  spoke  of  a  fear,  for  she  met 
Her  God  face  to  face,  hence  her  thoughts  were 
right. 

"  As  I  held  her  nearer,  my  fond  heart  yet 

Was  regretting  and  fretting,  when  I  turned  my 

head, 

And,  away  to  the  moon  there  broke  on  my  sight 
An  image  of  light  to  the  south  and  afar, 
A  red  gleam  afar  and  the  size  of  a  star ! 
And   I    knew  'twas  the  '  photo '  of  fire  on  the 

Plain. 

"  She  clung  closer 

The  moon,  hung  half  to  the  east, 
Seemed  to  stand  in  her  track  and  look  through 

the  mist 
Of  the  smoke  and  the   dust  in  distress  on  the 

fire, 
Now  spread  through  the  grasses  and  grown  to  a 

main, 
To    an    ocean    of    blaze    running    higher   and 

nigher. 


"  The  Long-Haired  Barbarian?          57 

"  We  flew  to  our  boat,  and  over,  in  haste, 
We  crossed  the  river,  and,  leaping  a-shore 
On  the  leeward  bank,  we  waited,  a-quiver, 
To  see  if  the  water  would  be,  as  before, 

A  stay  to  the  fire 

I  held  her  again. 

One  place  to  the  windward  the  river  was  narrow, 
Cut  deep,  but  narrow,  as  a  canoned  furrow; 
And  a  fire  on  the  plains  can   leap  like  an  arrow. 
As  the  fire  came  up  to  the  narrowest  place, 
She  sprang  from  my  arms,  with  a  frightened 

face, 
And,   clutching   the    grasses,  she  cried,   as  she 

twined 

Her  hands  in  the  grasses,  and  standing  a-shiver, 
Pale-lipt  and  a-quiver,  her  face  to  the  fire, 
With  a  plaintive  voice,  '  'Tis  over  the  river, 
And  on  from  the  river  to  us  ! '     Great  Giver  ! 
It  shot  like  a  bridleless  hurricane  down, 
Down  and  upon  us,  hot  and  a-frown  ! 

"  I  ran  to  her  rescue,  my  love,  my  crown. 
The  wind  was  so  high  and  the  fire  was  so  fast, 
4 


58          "  The  Long-Haired  Barbarian? 

As  it  shot  through  the  grass  by  the  spur  of  the 

blast, 

And  on  with  the  speed  of  a  word  on  the  wire, 
That    my    time    seemed    over;  for   the   flames 

came  on 

With  the  speed  of  a  chariot  lightning  drawn. 
The  roar  of  red  flames  a-surge  in  the  fray, 
And,  filling  the  sky  and  a-fold  in  the  winds, 
Black  billows  of  ashes  a-rolling  behind. 
'  Away  ! '  — too  late  —  flames  mad  by  the  sway 
And  lash  of  the  gale  pour  over  the  way  ! 

"  A  cry  from  the  midst  of  the  fire-sea  came, 

As  a  wailing  afar  from  a  wreck  at  sea  — 

A  tender  cry  from  a  pleading  form  ! 

While  the  weird  wind,  shrieking,  and   tossing, 

and  whirling, 

Kept  beating  and  breaking  on  the  fiery  lea, 
On   the   red-hot  maelstrom,   that,   twisting  and 

twirling, 

Eddied  around  her  flame  on  flame  ! 
And,  lapping  her  round  in  a  burning  fold, 
A  hot  wave  grappled  her  lifted  arm, 


"  The  Long-Haired  Barbarian?          59 

And  down,  down  in  the  blistering  brine 

Hurled  my  All  !  —  I  spare  her  name  : 

But,  whatever   her  name,  I  would  give  my  gold 

And  all  that  I  am  and  all  that  I  hold 

To  hold  her  now,  as  I  held  her  then. 

"  Many  summers  ago,  many  moons  in  the  past, 
The  coffin  was  cut  in  which  she  was  cast, 
On  eternity's  sea  —  the  beautiful  dead  — 
To  the  waves  for  the  haven  of  heaven  ahead. 

"  Contented,  storm-wet,  I  could  set  a-sail 
In  the  storms  of  the  seas  and  a-pitch  by  the  gale 
Winters  and  summers  and  time  without  end. 
Death  dare  to  the  deck,  and  bear  all  the  lash 
Of  the  storm   with   its  wheeling  and  whirling 

a-dash. 

Look  up  to  the  sea-clouds,  and  cry, '  God  send  ' ! 
Could   stand   on   the  mountains  and  watch  the 

wind  blow 

Up  millions  of  flakes  from  the  tempests  of  snow 
Into  piles  at  my  feet,  with  water-made  sands 
Cutting  crevices  over  my  purple-pale  face, 


60          "  The  Long- Haired  Barbarian? 

While  I  reach  up  my  shivering  white  and  blue 

hands 
To  warm  them  by  sparks  from  the  stars,  as  they 

blaze 
Out  of  reach  of  the  world ;  —  strike  fists  with  the 

gale  — 
Bring  blows  to   the   snows,  never  quail,   never 

wail !  — 

Would  ride  in  the  desert  that  borders  the  Plain, 
Girted  and  skirted  by  the  Plain-land  grass, 
With  my  Indian  pony  worn  and  a-stain 
With   blood   from     my    face  —  a-stain    on   his 

mane 
With   blood,    by  the    sand   (in    the   hot-lunged 

gust) 

That  stingeth  and  clingeth,  like  pebbles  of  glass  — 
Brush   my  cheek    on  a  cactus,  with  its  arms  in 

the  sky, 

In  its  garment  of  green,  and  the  sun  in  its  eye, 
Looming  up  and  high  over  the  sand-sea  tide, 
With  its  sun-boiling  blood  and  mute  and  lone, 
Brotherless,  sisterless  child  of  the  dust  — 
Fill   my  cheek  with  its  prickles,  while   leaning 

to  rein, 


"  The  Long-Haired  Barbarian?          61 

Till  they  sting  like  bees,  as  I  reach  and  I  ride. 

Great  God!  do  anything  earthly  to  hide 

That  face    and   that  form    going  down  in  the 

tide 

Of  grasses  ablaze,  as  it  passes,  a  main 
Driven   on  sweeping  low  and  sky-high  in  the 

gust! 
•         ••••••• 

"  You  need  more  glitter,  more  gold,  my  friend ; 
For  wealth  is  castled  and  cold  and  binned  — 
Hearts  of  rich  are  castled  and  thickened  twice, 
And  bastioned  and  batteried  well  with  ice ; 
And  so  if  you  enter  the  shelter  of  castles  — 
Enter  without  the  semblance  of  vassals, 
Or  slaves  to  the  rich  —  you  must  have  gold ! 
Yes,  I  admit  that  Love  is  warm, 
And  industry  honest  once  baffled  the  storm, 
And  charity  melted  the  hearts  of  old ; 
But  somehow  these  scarce  melt  the  cold 
Iced    hearts    of  this  age  —  so  men  must   plun 
der 

For  gold,  or  open  their  eyes  with  wonder 
Why  friendship  is  short  as  a  clap  of  thunder. 


62          "  The  Long-Haired  Barbarian? 

"  You  have  proven  a  friend  long  and  to  the  end 
(For  the  end  is  near),  so  take  this  gold, 
My  large-heaped  gold,  and,  before  I  die 
(For  the  end  is  nigh),  I  will  double  it  thrice; 
For,  after  she  fell  in  the  fold  of  flame, 
Not  another  man,  or  a  child,  or  woman, 
Of  all  the  millions,  not  a  single  human 
Ever  offered  the  precious  boon  of  the  love 
Of  a  sister  or  brother  or  anything  other 
Worthy  my  trust  —  nor  ever  yet  strove 
To  make  me  a  brother  until  you  came. 

"  Christ !  what  aileth  the  curved  moon  ? 

As  she  reaches  up  from  the  waves  that  wallow 

Over  the  Gulf,  and  hallo,  and  swallow 

The  blind  winds  walking  the  Gulf,  her  arm, 

Uncovered  and  hovered  over  her  head, 

Trembleth,  stained  a  dusty  red  ! 

Has  she  leaned  on  her  arm  to  drink  of  a  river 

Red  with  the  blood  of  the  mangled  years 

Wailing  and   trailing  the  Plains  of  the  past? 

Or  is  it  only  the  sign  of  a  storm 

Of  winds,  such  as  once  set  tossing  and  crossing 


"  The  Long-Haired  Barbarian"          63 

The  Plains  and  the  whole  with  flames  emboss 
ing? 

Or  is  it  the  sign  that  the  end  is  nigh,  — 
The  end  of  the  World  *?  or  the  end  of  me  ?' 
Go  back  !  go  down,  red  moon,  in  the  sea, 
Go  down  '  turned  blood  '  forever  and  ever  !    • 
Or,  if  ever  your  arched  arm  nears  and  rears 
Into  the  sky,  let  the  languid  eye 
Catch  only  a  light  with  the  old  white  pallor ! 
Be  anything  else  but  a  blood-red  color! 

"  O  the   gory  days  with  their  wailing  numbers, 
And   the  fevered  nights ;    and  the  eye,  that 

slumbers, 

Watching  a  face  forever  and  ever, 
And  looking  upon  an  arm  that  is  (crooking 
And  folding,  and  holding  a  pleading  lever 
To  move  one's  heart,  and  catching  and  hook 
ing 

The  heart  till  the  blood  runs  out  in  tears, 
Flooding  the  pillow!  O  the  huddled  years, 
Huddled  till  all  of  the  hills  and  hollows 
Crowd  into  a  picture  small,  that  follows 


64         "  The  Long-Haired  Barbarian? 

Forever  the  sweep  of  the  eye  in  sleep 
And  the  eye  awake,  till  the  strained  eyes  bleed ! 
And  the  ghost,  that  carries  it,  crying,  '  Read 
These  hills  and  hollows  rolled  deed  on  deed  ! 
Read  on  forever  —  read  and  weep  / ' ' 

He  leaned  on  me,  and  his  heart  did  quiver 
And  flutter  as  frail  as  a  floating  feather. 

'Twas  almost  over 

A  woman's  name 

And  a  blessing  fell  from  his  lips  together: 
Then  he  said :  "  Ah  !  well !  it  is  all  the  same ; 
For  now  I  feel  the  force  of  a  fever 
That  soon  must  settle  this  all  forever  !  " 
So  saying,  the  man  men  thought  so  strong, 
And  cold,  and  hardened,  sank  to  his  knee, 
Bowed    down    and    wept,   as    a    child    would 

weep  — 

Poured  out  his  spirit  broken  and  bleeding 
From  the  opened  scars  of  his  sinful  years, 
Blackened  and  scarred  by  deeds  of  wrong, 
And. lifted  a  yearning  prayer  with  me: 
And  "  God  is  love,"  so,  hearing  and    heeding, 


"  The  Long-Haired  Barbarian?          65 

He  sent  his  Son  to  the  broken  spirit, 
Who  "  washed  it  white,"  and,  just  as  the  tears 
Were  wiped  from  the  penitent  sinner's  eye, 
He  smiled  and  sank  to  his  deep  sweet  sleep  ! 


FROM  TEXAS  TO  CHILI. 
I. 

PARTING. 

A    SEA  of  dead  grass  on  the  plain, 

Whose    ports     are    filled    with    withered 

flowers, 

That  rock  upon  the  autumn  tide, 
As  unused  vessels  left  to  rot 
Upon  the  sea  by  sun  and  rain  — 
Biographies  the  seasons  wrote 
Of  April,  May,  and  June,  which  died  — 
A  dead  sea  of  dead  grass  without  ! 
A  dead  sea  of  dead  hopes  within  ! 
And  one  new  sea  a-gleam  like  tin 
Beneath  the 'sun,  where  I  will  float 
Aboard  a  ship  for  days  of  hours, 
Borne  heavily  amid  the  din 
Of  new-cut  memories,  and  shout ! 
A  girl  with  her  disheveled  hair 


From  Texas  to  Chili.  67 

Aflow  above  the  prairie  flood, 
As  the  mantle  of  a  trailing  star 
Floats  on  the  tide,  lifts  in  the  air, 
Along  the  surface  of  the  sea  — 
As  golden  clouds  adrift  afar 
Drift  over  on  a  flood  of  wood, 
Hands  clasped  upon  her  warm  heart,  lest 
Its  swelling  stir  her  eye-sea  tide 
To  overflowing,  and  her  pride 
Forbids  that  this  should  ever  be ! 
A  proud  girl  standing,  like  a  queen, 
Some  distance  on  the  wharf  from  me, 
Unmindful  of  the  busy  crowds 
A-dash  upon  the  wharf,  like  clouds 
Whirled  in  a  'whirlwind  at  the  quay 
Up  in  the  sky,  where  white  ships  lean 
And  toss  upon  the  upper  lea 
Of  seeming  liquid,  lunging  glass! 

Our  ship  stands  motionless,  as  she, 
Where  waters  meet  the  floods  of  grass.    * 
Would  it  were  fixed  by  bars  of  brass, 
So  firmly  to  the  land,  that  I 


68  From  Texas  to  Chili. 

Could  stand  forever  on  the  deck 
And  hear  the  plashing  waters  fall, 
Forever  sounding,  fall  and  break, 
And  watch  her  stand  so  still  and  tall, 
With  such  a  heart-hid,  burdening  wreck, 
Borne  silently  within  through  all 
Her  years  of  cold  and  cloudy  sky  — 
Watch  her  stand  waiting  for  our  flag 
To  clasp  hands  with  the  double  blue 
Of  sky  and  ocean  mingling  dew  — 
Stand  waiting  for  our  ship  to  drag 
Slow  down  the  sea-hill  out  of  view, 
To  hide  forever  ship  and  crew  !  — 

Lo  !  Suddenly  our  sail  a-furl, 
And  suddenly  the  sea  a-whirl 
Up  under  a  light  trembling-keel, 
To  seaward  too  a  ship  a-wheel ! 
A  shout  of  glee  and  wail  of  woe, 
Discordant  winging  o'er  the  waves  ; 
And  eyes  wet  at  foreboding  thought 
Of  salted  and  unsodded  graves ; 
Disdainful  turnings  on  the  heel ; 


From  Texas  to  Chili.  69 

And  smiles  spread  over  bursting  breasts, 
Hearts  breaking,  as  the  breaking  crests 
Of  waves  upon  the  speechless  shore ; 
And  arms  held  up  to  God  to  know 
If  glad  return  will  be  the  lot 
Of  him  or  her  ;  and  heads  of  hoar 

» 

Nodding  adieu  to  early  years; 
And  maidens  walking  to  and  fro ; 
And  children  wondering  at  the  sce/ie ; 
And  —     A  watery  way  has  come  between 
Our  vessel  and  Our  land     !  Our  sails 
Set  seaward  to  its  suns  and  gales  ! 

One  stood  alone  upon  the  rim 
Of  land  and  sea,  and  hummed  a  hymn 
Unmeasured  and  unthought  —  one  stood 
And  struggled  with  her  rising  blood. 
I  watched  her  from  the  rocking  ship  — 
Her  standing  with  her  bitten  lip. 
The  land  went  gliding  down  the  sea; 
Still  stood  she,  half-way  in  the  flood. 
Her  thin,  pale  hands,  did  seem  to  dip 
And  dangle  in  the  waves,  as  she 


70  From  Texas  to  Chili. 

Seemed  walking  deeper  in  the  deep, 
Until  the  waters  seem  to  beat 
And  break  upon  her  heaving  breast 
And  drop  their  foam  upon  her  hair, 
Like  white  flowers  falling  in  the  heat  — 
And  still  she  stood  and  would  not  weep. 
Then  she  was  hid  by  wild  unrest 
Of  waves  grown  bolder  and  more  wild, 
Until  they  dared  to  lift  and  bear 
A  flood  between  me  and  this  child. 

'The  sea-surged  ship  began  to  reel 
So  drunkenly,  it  made  me  kneel 
Upon  the  spume-spread  deck  and  pray, 
"  God  pilot  us  upon  our  way  !  " 
And,  kneeling  with  my  head  a  whirl, 
There,  suddenly,  upon  the  sea, 
Hands  clasped  upon  her  breast,  and  feet 
Well  whitened  by  the  foam  and  fleet, 
Seemed  following  that  blue-eyed  girl 
And  leaning  tenderly  to  me. 
Ah  !  had  she  looked  such  fond  desire 
And  had  she  leaned  thus  tenderly 
A  day  ago,  I  would  not  be 


From  Texas  to  Chili.  71 

Now  striving  hard  to  quench  this  fire 
By  dashing  through  this  dangerous  tide. 
I  saw  a  moment,  then  she  fell 
And  vanished  by  the  vessel's  side. 
Forgetting  I  was  far  afloat, 
Forgetting  this  but  seemed  to  be, 
I  started  from  my  knees  and  cried  : 
"  God,  lift  her  from  the  sea  !  "  —  Ah  !  well ! 

The  last  and  highest  swell  of  land 
Seems  lying,  as  the  merest  mote, 
Scarce  visible  from  where  I  stand. 
Now,  young  Past,  standing  on  the  shore, 
Shake  farewell  hands  across  the  wave 
With  dim  seen  Future,  and  the  grave 
Let  close  above  thee  evermore. 
Let  "  farewell !  "  be  for  aye  and  aye. 

Lift  up  your  new  flag  high  on  high 
And  shout,  my  memory,  "  You  and  I 
Will  stay  no  longer  with  the  dead  !  " 
Kiss  quick,  Past's  pale  and  purple  lip, 
Turn  on  your  heel  and  head  your  ship 
Far  to  the  southwest  —  dash  ahead  ! 


72  From  Texas  to  Chili. 


II. 

A-SAIL. 

Farewell,  pale  Past  and  land  of  grass ! 
Eternally  farewell  to  you, 
My  high-bred  girl !  and,  sky  of  glass, 
Long  everlastingly  adieu! 

No  wormwood  tastes  so  bitterly 
As  wormwood  taken  in  the  still 
Of  meditation,  when  the  eye 
Has  lost  sight  of  the  eye  a-swim 
With  farewells  filling  to  the  brim, 
When  lips,  a-touch  to  lips  a-chill, 
Are  parted,  and  when  chins  do  trill 
And  tremble  after  one  is  gone, 
And  when  the  face,  now  left  afar, 
Seems  looking  into  yours,  and  one 
Roams  mateless,  as  a  last,  lone  star. 
To  kiss  a  hasty,  hot  adieu, 
Is  bitter,  but  not  like  the  kiss 
(For  kisses  are  not  always  bliss), 


From  Texas  to  Chili.  73 

Of  meditating  memory. 
To  eager  hold  a  long-loved  hand 
In  parting  on  a  barren  strand 
For  sailing  on  the  billowy  blue 
Can  scarcely  leave  an  eye-lid  dry ; 
But  when  the  hands  hang  by  the  side, 
Or  reach  out  through  the  bitter  years, 
Until  they  grow  so  thin  and  pale 
By  drenching  in  the  salted  tide 
Of  flowing,  but  unebbing,  tears, 
'Tis  then  the  drifting  heart  is  tried, 
And  lifted  hands  droop  white  and  frail.  • 
When  looping  arms  reach  round  and  cling, 
Embracing  in  a  sad  farewell, 
And  breast,  pressed  passionate  to  breast, 
Heaves  heavy,  while  adieus  are  said, 
By  pouring  heart  hot  into  heart, 
As  mingled  waters,  '  bitter-sweet,' 
Poured  noiselessly  from  spring  to  spring — 
Ah  !  breasts  thus  passionately  pressed 
Could  never  utter  half,  nor  tell 
The  number  of  the  sheeted  dead  ; 
Still  rueful  as  this  is,  yet  this 
6 


74  From  Texas  to  Chili. 

Is  mingled  with  a  taste  of  bliss 
Beside  the  wormwood  when  apart 
And  reaching  out  to  draw  and  kiss 
A  fleshless  form  of  nothingness 
Forever  on  the  weary  waste 
Of  sweltering  sea,  or  burning  land  — 
Forever  reaching  empty-hand  : 
The  former  is  as  wind-made  wave 
Run  o'er  the  surface  of  the  sea ; 
The  latter  as  an  earthquake  swell 
That  stirs  the  deep  sea  in  its  grave, 
Awaking  the  sea-buried  dead, 
Who  sit  up  in  their  quaking  bed 
Repeating  sad  the  history 
Of  youth,  and  love,  and  fare-thee-well. 

The  sun,  a  set  of  blazing  gold, 

A  breast-pin  lying  heaving  hot 

Upon  the  bosom  of  the  sea, 

At  length  was  lost  behind  a  fold 

Of  Ocean's  dark  and  waving  dress 

A-fringe  with  foam,  as  maidens'  purl 

Their  garments  with  pure  white  and  light. 


From  Texas  to  Chili.  75 

This  Ocean's  foam-locks  tossing  free, 

Winds  mildly  lifting  every  tress 

So  spotless  and  so  pure  of  sin, 

This  Ocean's  bosom  heaving  white, 

Does  make  me  seem  to  see  afar, 

By  lamp-light  of  the  evening  star, 

The  bosom  of  a  high-bred  girl 

Breathe  fitfully,  her  hands  held  hard 

Above,  as  golden  locket's  lids, 

To  hide  the  lone  keep-sake  within. 

A  girl  who,  unmoved,  stood  and  barred 

Her  sympathies,  amid  the  din 

Of  partings  on  the  distant  quay  — 

I  wonder  if,  since  I  am  gone, 

She  sometimes  sets  the  door  ajar, 

And,  standing  on  the  wet  wharf,  bids ; 

Her  feelings  to  the  reverie  ! 

And  wishes  what  she  said  to  me 

Were  farther  off  than  where  I  am, 

And  I  were  there  where  it  was  said  ; 

And  wishes,  bitterly,  undone 

What 's  done,  and  recollection  dead  ! 


76  From  Texas  to  Chili. 

The  sky  hangs  mellowly  and  calm 

And  listens  to  the  ceaseless  psalm 

That  floats  up  from  the  devout  flood, 

Day  and  night,  a  hymn  to  God. 

The  moon,  arisen  in  new  birth, 

Is  held  up  to  the  arching  lea 

By  holding  to  the  starry  girth 

Of  white,  gold-studded,  milky-way, 

Which  belts  the  blue  and  bastioned  sky 

And  buttons  it  down  to  the  Earth. 

No  wonder,  if  the  heart  does  melt 

To  feelings  all  before  unfelt, 

Afloat  beneath  a  scene  like  this, 

Such  mellow  quiet  tenderness. 

The  waves  come  up  against  our  ship, 

And  kiss  it  with  a  trembling  lip. 

So  gentle  is  the  blue  and  green 

Soul  of  the  sea,  that  only  the  spars, 

Only  the  tip-top  seems  to  tip 

So  slightly  to  the  tipping  stars. 

The  only  thing  that  meets  my  eye, 

That  is  not  mild,  from  sea  to  sky, 

Is,  off  to  east  beneath  the  moon, 


From  Texas  to  Chili.  77 

The  reaching  of  the  troubled  tide ; 

And,  on  its  crest,  white  sea-froth  shines 

As  snow-spread  tops  of  wind-stirred  pines 

Upon  a  mountain-tide  of  land, 

Or  white-robed  dead  late  deified 

That  Christ-like  on  the  billows  stand 

Unsinking,  glorified,  and  grand. 

And  this  even  is  a  far-off  boon  ; 

For,  O  my  God  !  this  moonlight  still 

Is  harder  and  would  quicker  kill, 

Than  farewells  on  a  barren  strand ! 

The  silent  pain  unnerved  my  will. 

I  started,  as  if  from  a  swoon, 

And  clasped  my  cold  hand  to  my  head, 

Grown  gray  by  fine  fallen  flakes  of  foam 

And  dampened  by  a  night  of  dew, 

And  cried  :  "  My  God,  take  up  this  dead, 

Like  Moses,  to  an  unknown  tomb ! 

Darken  this  calm  and  silent  blue ! 

Set  boiling  this  sad  dreaming  sea ! 

The  roar,  the  rack  of  storm  and  gale, 

A  lunging  ship,  a  tattered  sail, 

A  torn  flag  dragging  in  the  ocean, 


78  From  Texas  to  Chili. 

An  hundred  people  shrieking,  pale, 
And  seeking  safety  in  devotion, 
Were  far  more  bearable  by  me !  " 


I  broke  this  painful  reverie 
Only  when  night  broke  for  the  day, 
And  the  vessel,  which  all  night  long  lay 
So  timidly  upon  the  wave, 
Began  its  rocking  in  the  breeze : 
And  then  my  heart,  grown  over  brave, 
Laughed  loudly,  shouted,  sang  with  ease 
"  The  Past  is  in  an  unknown  grave ! " 


III. 

A-SHORE. 

Ik 

A  cloud  afire,  a  rich  red  bar, 
Stretching  over  a  setting  sun, 
A  yellow  coin  of  burning  gold 
Tossed  on  the  table  of  the  sea ! 
The  Andes  looming  up  afar, 


Front  Texas  to  Chili.  79 

Upon  whose  shining  face  a  stone 
Has  caught  the  image  of  a  star 
Pale,  trembling  at  the  sinking  sun ! 
A  flood  of  orange  sunset,  run 
Unhardened  from  a  vesper  mould, 
Floods  South  American  Italy ! 
And  Chili's  peaks  and  gorgeous  strand 
Are  swimming  in  this  glorious  hue. 
Hail !  serene  sea  and  luring  land  ! 
Hail !  lifting  peaks,  who  pin  the  blue 
And  hold  it  bended  over  you  ! 
Hail !  home  of  condors  floating  high 
And  drifting  through  the  tidal  sky. 
High-handed  mountains  raised  to  grasp 
The  heaven-high  drifts  of  snows,  to  clasp 
Them  to  your  heated  breasts,  hail !  hail ! 
Strange  land,  shout  welcome  to  our  sail  ! 

The  sun  is  down ;  the  sail  is  up 
And  bowing  to  the  blooming  shore  ; 
And  we,  ashore,  stand  charmed  and  sup 
The  breezes  of  the  balmiest  sea 
And  balmiest  fields  that  ever  bore 
Free  vessels  and  the  shouts  of  free. 


8o  From  Texas  to  Chili. 


"    RETRORSUM. 

The  wharf  built  by  the  land  of  grass 
So  many  hundred  miles  away! 
I  wonder  if  that  proud  girl  stands 
Unweeping  'neath  the  sky  of  glass, 
Or  if  she  weeps  and  wrings  her  hands  ! 

Take  hold  my  hand,  take  hold  my  heart 
My  Chilian  land,  and  be  my  spouse, 
My  land  of  plain  and  I  will  part; 
Nor  let  thy  warm  unwailing  sea 
Forever  and  forever  rouse 
That  distant,  dimming  memory, 
That  tearless  girl's  last  look  to  me. 


"GROWING  OLD." 

BY  MISS  FADING  FLIRT. 

T  TAKE  the  Bible,  from  the  shelf 

And  o'er  the  "  Record  "  pore  and  pore 

And  read  it  over  to  myself, 

"  Was  born  in  eighteen-forty-four  !  " 
I  would  not  utter  it  aloud  — 

No,  not  for  all  my  father's  gold  — 
Still  will  the  thought  upon  me  crowd, 
"  I'm  growing  old  !  " 

I  looked  into  the  glass  to-night. 

I  noticed  little  veins  of  blue 
Stood  out  upon  my  brow  of  white  — 

I  mused  —  "  Alas  !  then  this  is  true, 
My  face  has  not  a  sign  of  red  /  " 

And  yet  my  heart  is  hardly  bold 
Enough  to  say,  what  might  be  said, 
"  I'm  growing  old  !  " 


82  "  Growing  Old" 

"  They  "  only  come  now  "  as  a  friend  " 

And  sit  upon  the  farthest  chair. 
They're  careful  now  not  to  offend  (!) 

By  mentioning  that  I  am  fair, 
Or  venturing  to  press  my  hand. 

Are  not  so  "  rude  "  as  to  enfold 
Their  arms  about  me,  as  I  stand  — 
Ah  !  —  growing  old ! 

They  talk  of  politics  and  money, 

The  ones  that  used  to  talk  of  "  love  " 

And  "  luscious  lips  as  sweet  as  honey," 
And  say,  "  Come  nestle  near,  my  dove  ! 

They  "  wonder  why  I  do  not  wed," 
Yet  never  "  offer  "  —  O  !  how  cold  ! 

They  mean,  by  this,  I  am  afraid, 

"  You're  growing  old  !  " 

I  thought  I  heard  two  saucy  girls 

Say,  as  they  passed  the  other  day, 
41  Of  late  her  boasted  flood  of  curls 

Is  growing  thin  —  well,  that  's  the  way  !  " 


"  Growing  Old?  83 

It 's  true ;  for,  when  I  comb  my  hair, 

The  comb  fills  full  as  it  can  hold. 
I  almost  cry  out  in  despair, 

"  I'm  growing  old !  " 


One  time  my  hands  were  pigeon-breasted  — 
How  fondly  then  they  used  to  kiss  them  ! 

How  many  tears  upon  them  rested  ! 

But  now  somehow  they  never  miss  them. 

Instead  of  dimples  now  are  knuckles, 
And  Charlie,  who  once  came  to  hold 

Them  fondly,  stays  away  and  chuckles, 

"  She  's  growing  old  !  " 

0  William,  with  your  "  little  ones  !  " 
O  Charlie,  with  your  smiling  eyes, 

Two  stars  now  sparkled  into  suns  ! 

O  many  others,  whose  "good-bys  " 
Each  left  upon  my  heart  the  trace 
<     Of  fleeting  years  !  you  say,  I'm  told, 

1  dare  not  look  you  in  the  face, 

Since  growing  old ! 


84  "  Growing  Old." 

The  mothers  call  upon  me  now, 
And  ministers,  to  sympathize     « 

And  point  me  to  the  "  promise  bow  "  (!)  — 
"You're    pale,"   they  say,  with  scores    ot 
"  whys?" 

0  me !  they  know,  as  well  as  I, 
My  color  in  my  youth  was  sold, 

And  that  the  only  reason  why 

Is  "  growing  old  !  " 

1  see  my  face  is  growing  thin ; 

I  see  my  lips  have  lost  their  red  ; 
I've  lost  the  dimple  on  my  chin 

And  half  the  hair  upon  my  head. 
I'm  growing  prudish  in  my  notions  ; 

I  fear  I'm  growing  to  "  a  scold  ;  " 
I'm  growing  angular  in  motions  — 
"  I'm  growing  old." 

I  see  the  maidens  in  the  street 

Smile,  as  I  pass  them  of  a  morn. 
Men  have  quit  gazing  at  my  feet  ; 
And  bachelors  now  say,  "  Forlorn  !  " 


"  Growing  Old?  85 

That  used  to  call  me  "  young  and  green." 

Sometimes  they  say,  "  Old  maid"  I'm  told, 
And,  "  Growing  pious,  growing  lean, 
And  growing  old !  " 

I  gave  my  younger,  sweeter  life, 
To  witcheries  and  smiles  and  lies, 

And  frightened  at  the  thought  of  "  wife  "  — 
My  older  life  I  give  to  sighs. 

I  look  back  to  my  warmer  days, 
Now  that  my  heart  is  growing  cold, 

And  sigh,  "  Flirtation  never  pays, 

When  we  are  old !  " 


EDGAR  A.  FOE. 

i. 

"\1[  7EIRD  meteor  of  a  doleful  dye 

Thus  flaming  in  a  gloomy  sky, 
As  wayward  as  the  comet  wild, 
Thou  strange,  romantic,  unknown  child, 
A  bust  of  deep  unearthly  woe, 
Mysterious,  morbid,  dreamy  Poe  ! 

ii. 

Lamented  be  the  day  that  found 
Thy  storm-swept  vessel  rockward  bound, 
And  doubly  cursed  the  fatal  day, 
When  thy  lone  life-boat  shattered  lay, 
In  floating  fragments,  o'er  the  sea  !  — 
A  mournful  loss,  when  Heaven  lost  thee 

in. 

Thou  wast  an  angel  strayed  to  earth, 
Thy  voice  commingling  in  the  mirth, 


EdgarA.Poe.  87 

And  dreaming,  not  of  gloom,  but  joy, 
And  heaven,  and  beauty,  fair-haired  boy. 
But,  "  Fallen  !  "  what  a  word  of  wail  ! 
What  ranks  of  misery  crowd  its  trail ! 


VI. 


Who  knows  the  swelling  veins  of  gall 
That  burst  thy  soul,  when'thou  didst  fall  ? 
Who  knows  the  quenchless  flame  that  fired  — 
Consumed  thy  peace  and  then  expired, 
Leaving  the  evil  all  unburned  — 
The  ashes  of  thy  soul  un-urned  ? 


THREE   WRECKS. 

A     WRECK  in  the  blue  of  the  heaven, 

Wreck  of  a  billowy  cloud  — 
Cloud-waifs  that  are  drifting  and  driven, 

Shreds  of  a  cloud-ship  shroud  ! 
The  trail  of  a  midnight  comet 
Caught  in  the  spar  of  a  cloud  ! 

Stars  in  their  raiment  of  yellow, 
Floating  a-top  of  the  waves  — 

A-top  of  the  high  blue  billow 
Dashing  up  over  the  graves 

Of  the  crew  of  the  stranded  vessel, 

The  cloud-ship  that  broke  on  the  waves  ! 

A  glimmer  of  twilight  waiting 

The  roll  of  blue  waves  to  their  strand, 

With  waifs  and  a  starry  freighting 
To  crush  it  down  into  the  sand, 

To  hurry  this  remnant  of  twilight 

To  the  sky-shore  and  dash  it  a-strand ! 


Three  Wrecks.  89 

The  face  of  the  moon  on  a  pillow 

Of  blue  encased  in  the  foam 
Of  a  white  cloud  stitched  to  the  billow  — 

Cold  face,  pale  face  in  the  spume, 

» 
And  dumb  and  afloat  as  a  corpse's 

Asleep  on  the  sea  and  its  foam ! 

A  hum  of  the  fall  of  river 

That  sounds  like  the  flutter  of  wings 
Of  a  bird  in  the  sky,  and  ever 

Its  measure  is  sad,  as  it  sings  ! 
A  rainbow  of  white  in  the  heavens, 

Drooped  down  from  the  centre  as  wings, 

The  milk-white  way,  for  the  roaming 
Of  strange  stars  treading  the  way  — 

For  those  that  come  up  from  the  foaming 
To  East  and  go  down  in  the  spray 

That  breaks  on  the  walls  of  a  city, 

Where  they  rest  through  the  lustre  of  day ! 

Now  and  then  one  flashing  and  falling 
Down  from  the  highway,  as  a  life ! 
7 


90  Three  Wrecks. 

Voices  of  "  far-off"  calling ! 

Sparks  from  a  memory  rife  !  ' 
A  pale  face  pressing  a  window, 

Lips  blue  as  the  lips  of  her  life  ! 

Lips  folding  the  name  of  a  lover  ! 

Heart  dead  as  a  heart-dead  tree  ! 
Tears  catching  the  purple  above  her 

And  the  dead-faced  moon,  maybe, 
And  painting  them  into  a  picture 

Of  a  tide-tossed  face  on  the  sea  ! 

Thin  hands  in  the  moonlight  folding 

Bitterly  over  a  breast, 
Clasping  them  over,  as  holding 

Her  own  sad  history  prest 
Alone  to  a  pitiful  bosom, 

Alone  to  a  blighted  breast ! 

A  sky,  like  a  sea,  in  motion, 
The  wreck  of  a  cloud  o'erhead  ! 

A  sail  a-trail  in  the  ocean, 

Spars  bowing  above  the  dead  ' 


Three  Wrecks.  91 

A  wreck  in  the  heart  of  a  maiden, 
No  wonder  her  face  is  sad  !  — 

No  wonder  the  red  cheek  blanches  ; 

No  wonder  the  lips  are  thin ; 
No  wonder  a  tear-tide  drenches 

Her  face ;  no  wonder  the  din 
Of  a  storm,  and  a  wreck,  and  a  sea-wail, 

Is  stirring  her  heart  within, 
At  a  scene  like  this;  no  wonder 

She  leans  with  a  trembling  chin, 
Her  wan  face  pressing  the  window ; 

No  wonder  her  lips  are  thin  ! 


A  BOOK. 

EALITIES  must  have  an  end  ; 

And  dreams  flee  faster  than  the  real ; 
And  hearts  are  histories  that  blend 
The  sad,  the  sweet,  the  false,  the  true. 
Regrets,  with  satisfactions  few  — 
The  pen  that  writes  is  frosted  steel, 

And  many-colored  is  the  ink. 
One  line  penned  whiter  than  the  page, 
And  pointed  with  its  points  of  pink, 
The  symbols  of  the  pure  and  weak  — 
The  blue,  the  true,  the  black,  the  bleak  : 
The  purple  cold  in  death  and  age. 

The  line  of  blurred  and  blotted  red, 
The  dripping  blood  of  violence  : 
The  gift  of  gold  writes  one  has  wed 
The  show  of  wealth ;  the  silver  touch 


A  Book.  93 

Tells  of  the  dead  ones,  tells  where  such 
In  Heaven  pitch  their  shining  tents  ! 

And  I  have  turned  this  blended  book 
Till  I  have  found  the  silvered  line  ; 
And  so  I  read  which  way  to  look 
Devoutly  to  her  shining  tent  — 
And  sometimes,  when  the  veil  is  rent, 
She  listens,  while  I  call  her  Mine. 


INDIAN  SUMMER  ON  THE  PLAINS. 


/^RASS  !  grass  !  plashing,  plashing  under  the 

hollow  glass 
Held,  hung,  and    hollowed  over  the  world  of 

grass  ! 

Sky  of  glass,  palm  of  the  hand  of  God  on  high  ! 
Grass  and  sky  under  and  over,  filling  the  world 

and  eye  ! 
Space  !    space  !    and  never  a  sign  and  never  a 

single  trace 
Of  fallen  cities,  or  where  a  tyrant  has  set  his 

face  ! 

Far,  far  away  look  at  a  setting  star, 
With  never  a  forest,  nor  even  a  single  spar, 
Far,  far  a-reach  from  a  single  tree  to  mar 
The  streaming  light  —  to  throw  on  the  face  a 

bar! 
Flowers  !     flowers  !     taller,    grander,    standing 

above  as  towers 
Over  a  roof  of  green  !  —  Now  falling  their  leaves 

in  showers. 


Indian  Summer  on  the  Plains.          95 

Bloom  !  bloom  !  fading,  falling,  falling  away  in 

gloom ! 
Green  !  green !  falling  away,  going  down  to  a 

tomb! 

Roof!  roof  of  green  wrought  in  wonderful  woof 
Over  the  world  as  a  temple,  you  wrought  as  a 

roof; 

Flowers,  as  towers,  now  that  the  crisping  hours 
Come,  temple,  towers,  all  fading,  falling  your 

powers  ! 
Stand !  stand !  gray,  brown,  dead  as  a  withered 

hand, 
Gray  as  a  ruined  temple  in  an  old  and  fabled 

land! 

Gales  !  gales  !  swift  running  and  whirling!  wails 
Sounding  from  under  the  chariot  wheels  !  gales 
Whirling  the  dust,  tossing  the  grass,  flapping 

the  veils  — 
Veils  !  veils  of  Indian  summer  smoke  walking 

the  air  with  trails  ! 

Red  !  red  light  of  the  sun  —  face  of  the  moon 
o'erspread ! 


96  Indian  Summer  on  the  Plains. 

V 

Redder  than  anything  living,  redder  than  any 
thing  dead, 

Red  in  the  struggle  of  death,  neither  living  nor 

dead  — 
w  is  Indian  summer  —  red,  painfully  red  ! 


SAILOR'S  FAREWELL. 

T  DID  not  think  yours  was  the  hand, 
Clung  as  it  was,  to  loose  so  soon  — 
Your  love  the  tender  guiding  moon, 
Bright  in  my  night,  to  stop  and  stand 
Half  way  to  noon  and  fade  and  dim 
And  leave  me  in  the  voiceless  gloom, 
Stand  trembling  on  the  narrow  rim, 
That  circles  an  eternal  tomb. 

Hard  as  this  is,  I  yield  — Farewell ! 
There  are  times  when  the  boasted  will 
Stands  like  a  dead  man  in  the  still ; 
And  this  is  one,  when  lovers  tell 
The  last  love-beads,  and  blur  and  blot, 
By  blood-lined  tears,  life's  young  white  page. 
But  go  —  and  hope  that  yet  this  thought 
May  dim  by  dust  and  din  of  age  ! 


98  Sailor  s  Farewell. 

The  heart  is  not  a  cup  of  steel : 

I  cannot  keep  this  keen-edged  word 

From  cutting,  though  a  brilliant  bird 

Sings  loud  its  melody  of  weal, 

And  flutters  joyous  on  the  sea, 

And  specks  it  with  the  foam  a-shine  — 

It  is  the  same,  or  worse  to  me, 

Its  song  but  saddens  the  repine. 

This  shore  to  leave  I  would  be  loath, 
Were  we  but  one  still,  as  before, 
Our  voices  tangling  in  the  roar 
Of  ocean  in  his  fur  of  froth, 
Somehow  I  see  his  whitened  rim 
Seem  reaching  up  between  us  two, 
And  waves  loop  round  me  limb  to  limb, 
And  bear  me  swift  away  from  you. 

Would  this  were  o'er,  and  we  afar ! 
And  yet  my  heart  does  bleed  to  know, 
O  God,  how  soon  this  will  be  so. 
When  I  am  gone,  hold,  like  a  spar, 


Sailors  Farewell.  99 

Your  hand  high  o'er  your  head  to  mark 
The  ruin  and  the  wreck  below, 
Your  strugglings  in  the  stormy  dark  — 
Call  me,  and  I  will  come  to  you. 

I  know  we  two,  apart,  will  kneel, 

Instead  of  knee  to  knee,  as  now, 

When  years,  and  miles,  and  tears,  and  woe 

As  thirsting  caravan  will  reel 

Between  us  on  a  desert  way  — 

Will  kneel  and  listen  to  the  sea 

In  murmured  prayer  —  will  kneel  and  pray 

For  what  can  never,  never  be. 

'Tis  hard  to  know  one  is  alone  ; 
Yet  drear  as  'tis,  I  will  not  miss 
The  clasp,  and  smile,  and  sacred  kiss, 
More  than  thou  wilt,  and  not  more  prone 
Will  trail  upon  my  troubling  breast 
The  leaves  and  bloom  that  love  has  grown, 
Than  they,  so  pale  and  deathly  dressed, 
Will  lean  low  on  thy  trembling  own. 


ioo  Sailors  Farewell. 

No  less  will  days  be  desolate, 

With  corpses  and  a  burial  rite. 

I  bear  henceforth  one  lifelong  night  — 

For  days  are  nights,  at  least  I  rate 

Them  shadows  of  my  former  days  — 

No  whit  less  desolate  and  dead 

Than  thine,  nor  song-full,  bloom-full  Mays 

Can  lighten  long  their  sombre  tread. 

But  go  —  and  hope  this  lonesome  knell 
May  drown  in  noise  of  years  !     Is  this, 
My  God  !  the  fruit  of  flowering  kiss  ? 
Is  this  the  end  of  bliss  ?     "  Farewell !  " 
Such  is  not  much,  yet  it  does  fill 
More  eyes  brimfull  of  bitternesses, 
Yet  it  more  lips  does  blue  and  chill 
Than   graves    and  death  — •  white  more  gold 
tresses  ! 

We  pass  fast  on  life's  bustling  way, 
Pass  running,  and,  with  ruth,  alas  ! 
Reach  left  and  right  to  those  we  pass, 
And  reckless  shake  fair  hands  and  say, 


Sailor  s  Farewell.  101 

"  Farewell ;  farewell !  "  until  we  grasp 
Some  hand  that  draws  us  lip  to  lip ; 
Then,  when  we  start  and  break  this  clasp, 
Two  hearts  break  with  the  breaking  grip. 

I  did  not  think  yours  was  the  hand 
To  stop  me,  in  my  rush  to  wake 
This  charming  song  so  soon  to  break 
In  measured  wails  —  to  leave  unmanned 
Two  ships  to  toss  on  sunless  sea  !  — 
Unclasped,  ungripped  from  those  we  woo, 
Hands  shake  less  warmly,  after  we 
Have  torn  them  from  the  tender  true  ! 

The  world  is  wild,  and  teeming  wide 
With  motley  millions  true  and  false. 
Rush  in  amid  their  shout  and  waltz  — 
Nod  sadly  to  the  medley  tide 
Of  youth  and  age  ;  the  half,  maybe, 
Have  clasped  hands  once  too  often,  too ! 
And  should  you  see  two,  knee  to  knee, 
Weep  not  that  'tis  not  me  and  you. 


IO2  Sailor  s  Farewell. 

For  lips  must  touch  but  to  untouch ; 

And  breast  hugs  breast,  and  trembles  glad 

But  to  be  left  unclasped  and  sad ; 

And  parting  hands  are  left  to  clutch 

At  shadows,  always  empty-hand ; 

And  eyes  with  love-light  shine  and  burn 

But  to  be  turned  to  tears — so  stand 

And  say  :  "  Farewell !  "  and  do  not  mourn  ! 

God  never  gives  but  one  like  thee 
To  wander,  with  thy  bleeding  feet, 
A  time  amid  the  cold  and  heat, 
And  lead  one  on,  as  you  have  me. 
Farewell  !  and  should  a  troubled  keel 
Toss  up  in  view,  and  should  you  hear 
Sometime  a  sea-wail  —  should  you  kneel 
Then  on  this  shore,  pray  weep  no  tear 
Because  you  cannot  kneel  more  near 
Me  tossing  on  that  wheeling  ship  — 
And,  should  you  see  me  reach  and  reel, 
Let  no  lament  lift  purpling  lip  1 


LIFE  IN  DEATH. 

A    LONE  green  tree  amid  the  dead, 

A  lone  flower  on  a  lone  green  tree, 
Blue  blossom  gleaming  overhead, 
And  bluer  than  a  blue-bell's  blue, 
And  vying  with  the  spotless  hue 
Of  May  skies  melting  to  a  sea  ! 

Leaves  leaning  to  the  lisping  stream, 
Limbs  clasping  to  the  tender  breeze, 
Shells  painted  pure  and  rich-hued  cream  ! 
Blue  bloom  now  turned  up  to  the  sky, 
Now  gazing  with  its  golden  eye 
On  shadows  bended  to  their  knees  ! 

These  shadows  circling  round  me,  knelt, 
Seem  so  like  voiceless  angels,  till 
Their  sainted  tendernesses  melt 
And  flood  my  spirit  like  a  balm. 
They  kneel,  they  kiss  me  in  the  calm, 
And  woo  to  worship  in  the  still. 


IO4  Life  in  Death. 

Green  grasses  with  a  touch  of  blue, 
Calm  blades  that  tread  with  tufted  feet, 
That,  arm  in  arm  and  two  by  two, 
Seem,  moving  in  the  mellow  shade, 
To  woo  with  whispers,  so  afraid 
To  break  the  peace  so  sad,  yet  sweet. 

This  live  spot  'mid  the  soulless  dead, 

This  still  life  hath  its  counterpart, 

A  history  unwrit,  unsaid, 

Save  only  what  the'  pen  of  God 

Has  written  on  the  silent  sod 

Of  sod-bloomed  graves  within  a  heart. 

This  stately  beauty-bearing  tree 
Is  as  the  symbol  of  a  life. 
That  one  blue  blossom  seems  to  me, 
So  purer  than  the  sinless  sky, 
The  symbol  of  a  sweet  fond  eye 
Which  calls  up  recollections  rife. 


THE  GARDEN  WAY. 

I. 

r  I  "HIS  world  's  a  great  fair  flower-garden  spot 

That  lies  along  a  "  ghastly  rapid  river  " 
Called  Death  ;  and,  on  the  other  bank,  the  lot 
Of  Heaven,  high  broad  plateau,  lies  gleaming 

ever, 

Whose  shining  leaves  eternal  wither  not ; 
And  in  the  dismal  mist,  stands  reaching  over 
This   stream   a  damp   drear  bridge,  and   named 

the  Tomb, 
A  crossing  on  the  Christian's  highway  home. 

ii. 

This  highway  is  a  straight  and  narrow  road 
Through  Earth's  flower  beds,  o'er  the  bridge,  and 

up  to  rest. 

Away  back  from  the  river's  deathly  flood 
We,  young  and  easily  wrong  impressed, 


io6  The  Garden  Way. 

Begin  our  trial  journey  up  toward  God. 
This  blooming  Garden,  in  its  glory  dressed, 
Is  hedged  with  trees  of  mystery,  that  drop 
Their  lightless  blossoms  from  their  dusky  top. 

in. 

First,  here's  a  bed  of  Doubts  that  creep  and  feel 
About  the  ground,  and  o'er  it  weave  and  tangle 
How,  at  the  silent  eloquent  appeal 
That   glistens    from    a    thousand   flowers    that 

dangle 

Amid  their  wet  work,  does  the  feeling  steal 
On  us  to  go  and  pluck  some  curious  spangle  ! 
Stay  out :  for  once  amid  this  twining  host 
Of  doubts,  your  feet  are  caught,  and  all  is  lost ! 

IV. 

And,  O  !  the  gorgeous  splendor  of  this  bed 
Of    pleasure-posies!   How    they    shimmer, 

twinkle, 

How  beckon  with  each  sparkling,  nodding  head  ! 
Their  witching,  silvery,  golden,  diamond  tinkle 


The  Garden  Way.  107 

Calls,  "  Come  !  "  And  how  her  lolling  beauties 

plead 
"Come    in!" — Go    not;  for   stinging   nettles 

crinkle 

Beneath  these  flowers,  thick  and  matted.    When 
The  gar'dner  comes  to  gather  them,  mark,  then  — 

v. 

He'll  drive  you  'mid  the  leaves  of  punishment 
That  rustle  in  the  bitter  vale  of  Pain  !  — 
And  here  's  a  bed  of  Hopes,  but  ah !  how  blent 
With   flowers    of  fear  so    pale  and  crisped  by 

blain  ! 

'These  are  uncertainties,  whose  flowers,  top-bent, 
Keep  tossing,  bowing,  lifting,  and,  in  vain, 
Reaching  for  something  never  found  to  clasp. 
Go  not  to  pluck  their  bloom  —  withhold    thy 

grasp  ! 

VI. 

Go  not  among  their  restless  stalks,  to  let 
Them  blind  you,  with  their  endless,  cursed  toss 
ing. 


io8  The  Garden  Way. 

Keep  straight  ahead,  till  at  the  parapet 
That  leads  you  to  the  river's  gloomy  crossing ; 
Then  close  your  weary  eyes  without  regret, 
Lay  hands  in  Christ's,   who'll  lead  you  crossing 
Beyond,  where  death  nor  sorrow  ever  dares 
To  enter,  "  and  God  shall  wipe  away  all  tears!  " 


MOTHER,  PRAY! 

SIT  and  sing  the  cheerless  song 
That  I  have  sung  so  many  years,  — 
A  song  that  has  no  hope.     How  long 
Before  to-night,  since  any  tears 
Have  bathed  the  fever  of  my  eye ! 
O,  me !  my  very  heart  will  break  ! 
For,  though  I  kneel  so  low  and  try, 
I  cannot  pray.     Then  let  me  cry 
The  night  away,  and  let  me  take 
My  tears  to  her,  for  she  can  pray. 
How  many  nights  of  storm  and  calm 
Now  has  she  pointed  out  the  way. 
Still,  when  she  prays,  God  hears  my  name 
I  cannot  pray ;  then  let  me  go 
And  give  my  tears  to  her;   I  know 
That  she  would  clasp  her  hands,  and  bow 
With  sweetened  tears  to  know  that  I 
Can  even  weep  and  wish  to  pray. 
O  mother,  let  me  come  and  lay 


no  Mother,  Pray  ! 

My  yearning  tears  upon  thy  prayer, 
To  wing  them  Home,  and  kindly  near 
And  pour  them  in  the  hand  of  God, 
That  He  may  know  I  kneel  and  try 
To  say  a  prayer,  and  "  kiss  the  rod  !  "  .  .  . 
What  tender  voice  runs  on  the  air  ? 
O  mother,  'tis  his  words  I  hear ; 

"  We  own  thy  tear,"  I  hear  Him  say, 

"  And  let  thee  pray !  " .    . 

I  pray !    I  pray 


ESTHER.  x 

T^STHER,  the  light  sun  lingers 

And  works  with  his  gilded  fingers 
In  the  tops  of  the  trees, 
Under  and  over  tangling 
His  silken  rays, 

With  broken  ravelings  spangling 
The  breeze. 

Esther,  the  sun  with  gilt  fingers, 
That  works  in  the  tree-tops,  lingers 

Where  I  can  see, 
But  never  can  feel,  his  glory  ; 

And  so  of  thee 

The  "  dim-remembered  story  " 
Unfelt  I  see/ 


ELLEN. 

T)ACK  years,  many  years  in  the  distance, 

Where  the  sea  of  the  past  in  the  far-off 
Clasps  hands  with  my  life-sky  of  purple, 
Forever  I  see,  by  the  foaming, 
Her  feet  in  the  pebbles  of  sea-shells, 
Her  hair  in  the  hands  of  the  sea-breeze, 
Her  lips  in  the  kiss  of  the  sea-surf 
And  her  violet  eyes  in  a  tear-tide  — 
Forever  I  see,  by  the  foaming, 
A  memory  fond  and  eternal : 
And  daily  I  kneel  by  the  sea-shore, 
And  holding  my  ear  to  the  sea-shells, 
Pink-lipped  and  eternally  singing, 
In  echo,  the  sounds  of  the  voices 
That  mingle  their  melody  o'er  them. 
I  catch,  from  their  lips  pink,  singing, 
The  prayer  of  my  beautiful  Ellen. 

Then,  looking  away  to  the  future, 
I  see,  on  the  rim  of  an  ocean 


Ellen.  1 1 3 

More  peaceful  than  placid  Pacific, 
Out  of  Time  in  the  country  eternal  — 
On  the  rim  of  the  waters  of  crystal, 
Her  hair  in  the  hands  of  the  breezes 
Of  balm  in  the  blisses  of  Heaven, 
Her  soul  brimming  over  with  beauty 
And  love  that  is  more  than  eternal. 
And  so  I  reach  back  in  the  distance, 
Regretting  the  shore  I  am  leaving, 
And  lean  with  a  hope  to  the  future, 
Rejoicing  at  what  I  am  nearing.  — 
Look  back  dim-eyed  to  a  picture, 
A  memory  fond  and  eternal, 
Look  on,  with  a  hope,  into  Heaven, 
For  a  love  that  is  more  than  eternal  — 
Look  back  on  the  dead  and  a  parting 
With  memory  fond  and  eternal  — 
Ahead  with  the  hope  of  a  meeting 
With  love  that  is  more  than  eternal. 


A  MEMORY. 

S~\  MOUNTS  !  O  moons !  O  stars !  O  trees ! 

O  skies  !  O  lakes  !  O  rushing  streams  ! 
O  rough-hewn  lands  !  O  rolling  seas ! 
O  wormwood  dregs  of  broken  dreams ! 
Why  stir  those  winter  wind-numbed  bees 
Of  memory  to  set  their  stings 
To  torturing  my  wayward  soul 
And  deafening  with  their  din  of  wings  *? 
Why  frown  *?  why  smile  ?  why  rush  *?    why 

roll? 

Why  are  these  shoutings,  whisperings, 
Dead  leaves  of  Falls  and  blooms  of  Springs 
Forerunners  up  my  wild  weird  way, 
To  wail  unending  in  my  ears, 
When  skies  are  clear,  or  dark,  or  gray, 
That  tender  voice  of  early  years, 
And  make  me  out  of  bitter  tears 
See,  on  the  northeast  shore  of  pine, 
That  child  "found floating  on  the  brine  ?  " 


"  THE  CHILD  OF  WOE  !  " 

OHE  walks  on  the  shore  of  a  wintry  night; 
And    her   hands   are  thin,  and  her   hair  is 

white  — 

White  with  trie  snows  that  come  below, 
And  each  flake,  pitying,  tries  to  light 

So  tenderly  over  the  "  Child  of  Woe  "  — 
And  yet,  as  they  gather  soft  and  slow, 
Clustering  over  her  neck  of  snow, 

She  shivereth  under  her  scanty  fold  — 

Cold,  so  cold ! 

The  world  is  white,  and  the  sky  is  hid 
By  tears  that  fall  from  under  the  lid 

Of  clouds  shut  over  the  eye-like  moon, 
As,  frozen  a  frosty  white,  they  glide 

Down  the  cheek  of  the  sky,  so  soon 
To  light  and  mingle  them,  cold  as  stone, 
With  tears  meandering,  one  by  one, 

Over  her  face  —  O  men  with  gold  !  — 

Cold,  so  cold ! 


1 1 6  "  The  Child  of  Woe" 

The  clouds,  o'erhanging,  are  white  and  chill 
As  the  snowy  earth ;  and,  up  on  the  hill, 

The  marble  monuments,  slim  and  tall, 
Lean  up  to  the  sky  so  pale  and  still ; 

And  her  face  is  white  as  the  snows  that  fall 
And  the  drearest  spot  in  her  heart  of  all, 
Is  where  there  trembles  the  cheerless  wail, 

A  word  too  sad  for  the  world  to  hold, 

"  Cold,  so  cold  !  " 

The  snows  crowd  into  her  tattered  shoe  — 
No  wonder  her  lips  are  thin  and  blue  !  — 

And  blue  ne'er  symboled  a  sweeter  mind, 
Or  a  soul  whose  needle  could  dip  more  true 

To  Heaven  than  hers,  or  a  heart  more  kind 
And  still  the  eyes  of  the  world  are  blind  — 
And,  O,  here  cometh  a  whirl  of  wind  ! 

God,  help  her  see  through  the  flying  fold 

Of  snows,  so  cold  ! 

How  rise  the  drear  and  gathering  drifts  ! 
And  each,  like  a  living  ghost,  uplifts 


"  The  Child  of  Woe?  117 

As  though  it  reached  for  the  cold  embrace 
Of  the  upper  drift,  that  wails  and  sifts 

Down  chillingly  into  her  whitened  face ! 
How  fast  it  covers  the  latest  trace 
Of  her  freezing  feet,  as,  pace  by  pace, 

She  strives  on,  hugging  the  scanty  fold, 

Cold,  so  cold ! 

And  no  one  offers  a  guiding  hand 
To  help  her  over  the  whitened  sand, 

As  fair  lights  out  of  the  windows  gleam 
Where  all  within  is  a  tropic  land  — 

Ah  !  would  it  a  want  of  charity  seem 
Should  she,  adrift  with  the  snowy  stream, 
Half-way  think  and  half-way  dream 

That  the  hearts  and  hands  that  have  the  gold 

Are  cold,  O  !  cold  ? 

O,  me  !  what  a  homeless  waif  of  woes  ! 
Sailing  alone  on  a  sea  of  snows, 

Her  yearning  voice  so  frail  that  none 
Will  listen  at  all,  and  no  onq  knows 

Its  cry  is  meant  for  a  signal  gun  ! 


ii8  "The  Child  of  Woe? 

So  the  strong  go  by  her  one  by  one  — 
No  wonder  then,  as  she  tosses  on, 

She  sighs,  a-clutching  her  scanty  fold, 

"  The  World  is  cold ! " 

And,  O  !  as  she  goes,  wilt  no  one  come 
And  make  in  his  heart  an  inch  of  room  ? 

And  warm  her  cheek  with  a  Christian  tear  ? 
And  take  her  out  of  the  snowy  gloom  ?  — 

What  a  pitiful  call  for  a  bit  of  cheer! 
O  !  how  can  a  Christian  help  but  hear  *? 
Then  send  her  to  me,  for,  O  !  I  fear 

No  one  will  know,  till  a  snowy  fold 

Winds  her  —  cold  ! 


SO   LOOK  ABOVE. 

/I  HOLT  stillness  hovers  in  the  air 

And  lathes  the  soul  in  peaceful  reverie ; 
Breathe  low,  nor  speak,  nor  sigh,  nor  even  dare 
To  break  the  sweetened  still  with  sounds  of  glee  / 

'The  very  flowers  their  purest  homage  tend 
And  kiss  their  fragrant  incense  to  the  sky. 
They  look  above,  and  drop  and  blend 
'Their  sinless  tears  where  dying  shadows  lie. 

The  silver  moon  unveils  her  timid  face 
Made  mild  with  messages  of  speechless  love  — 
God's  felt,  but  unseen,  presence  Jills  the  place 
And  melts  the  heart  to  prayer  —  so  look  above  ! 

FINIS. 


